


Dreamscape

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Am I addicted to AUs now?, Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1945, a virus was unleashed in a desperate attempt to end the war; it succeeded, but plunged hundreds of millions into comas joined by one thing: the Dreamscape. Now, nearly 2 decades later, the world is still ravaged by the virus with new victims falling every day. </p><p>Thursday, a copper in a world with little crime and limited resources to spend on policing, is approached by a man who claims he can help him. The only catch is that he's trapped in the Dreamscape himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping to get this out pretty quickly, by the end of December with fingers crossed.

The wind is hot on his face, scraping sand over his skin. It’s desiccated, carrying no trace of moisture as it whistles past, knife-sharp. The world is only two colours: tan and blue. An empty sky above, and an empty wasteland below. The bare rocky crags and outcroppings make no difference: the desert is lifeless. 

Except, Thursday sees as he turns, for the man sitting on the rocks behind him. A British army sergeant, with a pack at his side and a rifle on his back. Thursday’s eyes narrow: the man is far too old to be enlisted; Dad’s army is more likely. His hair is white, face wrinkled and build slumped with age, only his bright eyes suggesting hidden potential. Thursday slips his own rifle a little closer to the edge of his shoulder and steps forward, boots leaving shallow prints in the sand. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” says the sergeant, without moving. He’s sitting with his legs drawn up in front of him, arms resting on his knees and back curved: no army posture. 

“Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. Fred Thursday, DI, Oxford.”

A blast of wind rips by, sand turning the world gold. As it passes the world tears away with it, revealing a new greener, lusher one. The Botanical Gardens in Oxford, grass green and thick, bright flowers in bloom all around him. And, sitting in front of him on a wooden bench without having changed his posture one inch, the sergeant, now wearing a navy suit. Thursday’s heart clenches painfully. 

“This is the Dreamscape,” he says, half his voice caught by his tightening throat. 

“The edge of it,” agrees the sergeant, calmly. “You haven’t fallen; you’re just skimming the surface.”

Thursday looks around more carefully. The world around him looks entirely real, smells real, sounds real. Even feels real, he confirms by reaching out and catching a rough rhododendron leaf between his fingers. But then, dreams always do. “And you?” he asks, letting go of the leaf and looking up. 

The sergeant shrugs. “I fell a long time ago. This is as far as I come.” He says it as though there were some delineation, some observable boundary holding him in. But there’s just the garden on a summer’s day, safe and peaceful. Or at least, it seems so. Thursday knows better than to believe it.

“Why am I here?” he asks, stiffly. 

“You’re looking for someone. A murderer. I can help you.”

Thursday holds himself very still, keeping his face blank. “How d’you know that?”

“I’ve been watching you. Your dreams. You take your work home with you.” Some of his composure slips and he sits up a little, uncomfortable. “I would too, violence like that.”

Violence goes nowhere near far enough. For the past month, Thames Valley Police have been hunting a child murderer. He’s killed twice so far, and both the psychologists and the old coppers know he’ll kill again. Violent crime may have fallen through the floor since the Oneiros virus decimated the world’s population, but psychopaths don’t fear the Dreamscape. This one is hungry for blood and terror and pain, and he’s a master at producing them from both his victims and the city. 

“And how can you help me? You’re here; he’s not.”

“I can look for him, find him like I found you. Murderers dream of the blood on their hands.”

Thursday shakes his head. “Not this one. This one likes it.”

“I didn’t say nightmares,” replies the sergeant, mouth pursing in distaste. “We give away far more of ourselves than we realise in here,” he continues, pulling out a few photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket and handing them to Thursday. They’re black and white, glossy with white borders. Thursday takes them and flips through one by one, face darkening. His house, Cowley station, Sam playing football. Win waiting for him at the train station in ’45 with a tiny Joan at her side watching expectantly for the father she had never met. Win’s grave, Joan’s dead bouquet lying in front of it. 

He looks up, feeling the heat of his anger under his collar. “What is this?”

“Your memories. They’re quite clear, if you know what to look for. I’ve had a lot of practice at sifting reality from fantasy.” He glances up; the clear sky above is clouding over with heavy black storm clouds at an unnatural speed, a biting wind picking up. “It was just a demonstration, inspector. I hardly looked at all. I can find out much more about your murderer, once I track him down. His name, his place of employment, where he lives.”

The clouds above break, the first falling drops painting the pale grey of the gravel pathways charcoal-coloured, while the air is suffused with the smell of rain. The sergeant reaches behind him and produces a large black umbrella, which he opens. Thursday stands in the worsening downpour, glowering. “And what do you want in return?” he asks, water dripping down his face, soaking his hair and running down the back of his neck. 

The sergeant watches him for several seconds, considering. Finally he stands, pulling a second umbrella from behind the bench with his free hand. He offers it to Thursday without moving from his place. Thursday stays where he is. The sergeant shrugs and lowers it, resting the ferrule on the ground. 

“Someone to talk to on occasion,” he says, simply. “In here with nothing but the contents of your head for company, sooner or later, you begin to lose yourself. And I’m sure you know where that leads.” He sighs, some of the woodenness falling from his face to show honesty – and loneliness. “I don’t want to become a Terror, inspector. But I will, without you.”

“How do I know you aren’t one, trying to catch me?”

For the first time, the sergeant smiles. “They don’t bother with pleasantries – or speech. If you notice them, it’s already much too late.”

Thursday looks around at the dark, stormy gardens. The trees are bending with the wind, delicate flowers being flattened under the harsh rain. Overhead a bolt of lightning tears through the sky, the boom of thunder following almost immediately. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I can keep you safe. For a while.” He looks up, shutting his umbrella. The black, drenched gardens melt away to be replaced by a small, unimposing flat. A bed-sit, the single bed heaped with blankets, the table and desk with books. Outside the sun is shining; in the distance Thursday can hear bells ringing the hour. “How much do you want to find your killer?” he asks, leaning back against the narrow desk and putting down his umbrella. 

Thursday sighs. “What do I have to do?”

“Here.” He turns to a bookcase beside the desk; it’s mostly filled with books, but half the bottom shelf is taken up with records. He reaches out and picks one from the row, a sandy colour with a sepia photo of a beautiful woman. _Rosalind Calloway, Famous Arias_ is the title. He hands it to Thursday; this time, Thursday takes it. “The first track is _Un Bel Di_ from Madame Butterfly. Can you sleep with music playing?”

Thursday shrugs. He learned long ago to fall asleep anywhere at the drop of the hat. It’s keeping from waking up that’s the problem. 

“Then find a copy and play it when you go to sleep. I’ll find you. Come back in a few days; I’ll tell you what I have.” He glances out the window; outside the sky is shifting again. This time it’s starting to crack like porcelain, cutting the bright blueness into hundreds of uneven pieces. One by one, they start turning dark. 

“I don’t even know your name,” says Thursday, also starting to stare. The cracks start appearing in the flat – running up the walls as though the wiring were being ripped up, segments of the walls turning black. 

The sergeant grabs his arm, staring straight at him. His eyes are very blue, Thursday notices, even as he watches parts of the scenery blink out in growing horror. “It’s not important. You’re going to wake up soon – remember: Rosalind Calloway. Un Bel Di.”

 _One Beautiful Day_ , thinks Thursday, as the room disappears and he slips away into the darkness. 

He wakes up lying tangled in his bedsheets, frowning at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he switches on the light. After a few minutes more he takes up the pencil and paper he keeps by his bedside in case of late-night insights, and writes out: _Rosalind Calloway. Un Bel Di._

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“Any news?” asks Thursday as he gets into the Jag the next morning, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He feels as tired as he did before he went to bed the night before. Before he tumbled into the strangest dream he’s ever had. 

“We’ve lost one of the parents,” says Lott with casual irritation, pulling away from the kerb. “She fell two days ago; just heard last night.”

Thursday’s hand drops away as he looks up. His heart gives the painful flutter it still gives when he hears the news; he fists his hands in anger at the response. “She’s a new victim; she’ll be on the priority list for the vaccine,” he says, little surety in his voice.

“She may have to take her chances with the lottery instead; hear they’re running low again.” 

Thursday’s lip curls. “When aren’t they?” 

“You going to the vegetable farm? I can find out where –” he doesn’t have a chance to finish before Thursday interrupts flatly. 

“No. There’s no one there to speak to.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Another two days of investigation uncover no new leads, no promising suspects. On the third, a third body is found. Jeremy Sutton, 13. 

That night, Thursday stops at the local record store. They don’t have what he needs, but he gets the name of a London shop that will. 

That weekend, he takes a trip up to London. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday swims into consciousness to the sound of swelling music and a clear soprano voice. A bittersweet song about a woman waiting for the return of her lover. It makes his heart twist a little, exhausted from years of grasping for something beyond its reach. 

He turns his mind from his loss and opens his eyes. He’s lying on a narrow single bed in a familiar-looking flat.

Thursday sits up abruptly and sees the sergeant sitting in the desk chair, the turntable playing behind him. He reaches out and lifts the needle from the record; the music stops. “You came back,” he says, a little surprised. 

He’s wearing a dark blazer and slacks, with a subdued tie. He is, Thursday sees now that he’s not so tightly-wound, not as old as Thursday had taken him for. Probably only a little older than Thursday; his hair must have whitened in his forties, an unhealthy lifestyle or too-large meals explaining the extra weight he’s carrying. Not that Thursday can fault him; he carried too much himself when he had Win to cook for him. 

“There’s been another death,” says Thursday, flatly. The sergeant’s eyes widen; in his surprise he looks younger, wrinkles smoothed from his face. But a moment later the surprise fades and he nods.

“I thought something must have happened. I think I’ve found your man. His dreams are… intense. Filled with violence and thirst. And, just lately, satisfaction.” 

Thursday stands, bedsprings lurching beneath him. “Do you know who he is?”

“Philip Carlyle. He lives in Cowley – here.” There’s a dizzying swirl as the room around them shifts, colours and textures bleeding from one location to another like milk being stirred into black coffee. The landscape resolves itself to a narrow street in late evening, street lamps illuminating a row of brick tenements. “That one,” he says, “34. I could show you the inside, but I doubt it would help. I don’t know the street name, not yet.”

“What does he do?”

“Manual work of some kind; plumbing perhaps. I can find more about that, too.” He sounds slightly desperate to please. Unsurprising; he’s giving up his cards with no way to force payment. But despite that, Thursday has no sense that he’s holding anything back, keeping information hostage. 

Around them Cowley fades and they are back in the same flat he woke in – the same flat they came to the last time he was here.

“His name should be enough,” says Thursday, looking more closely at the flat. It’s cheap and tiny, the kitchen just a sink and counter with a one-element cooker and small refrigerator. It’s clean and well-kept though, not the kind of broken and beaten old accommodation prevalent in the lower end of Cowley. Thursday has seen plenty of flats like it, but never this specific one. This isn’t his dream. “Where is this?”

The sergeant blinks. “Somewhere safe. You don’t like it?”

Thursday gives a little shrug. “It’s fine. By the by, you never told me your name.”

“My name isn’t important.”

“I don’t keep promises with men who have no name,” returns Thursday, with just enough heat to show he means it. 

“James,” says the sergeant after a moment. He’s not a good liar. 

“James what?” asks Thursday, going along with it. Poor liars are always easy to catch out in the elaboration.

But the sergeant seems unsurprised by the question, clearly anticipating it. “Cook.” He also seems unbothered by the fact that he’s lying. 

“Your real name,” asks Thursday, unimpressed. 

“I once met a man called Errol Flynn,” says the sergeant, watching Thursday with cat-like humour in his eyes, a wry amusement in another’s confusion. “Parents give their children all nature of foolish names.”

“I don’t –” begins Thursday, but the sergeant – Cook – interrupts. 

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable. Close your eyes.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows, eyes defiantly open; Cook shrugs. “As you like.” The world tears itself away, Thursday’s stomach lurching a little. When it settles they’re in a small office lined with books, a fire crackling merrily in the corner, two overstuffed armchairs by it on an old circular carpet. Cook takes a seat in one of them, watching Thursday in amusement.

“You call this comfortable?” grouses Thursday, taking a seat in the other.

“You don’t?” he asks, still that wry little smile resurfacing.

“Stuffy would be nearer my tongue,” replies Thursday. In fact, pretentious is the word that comes to mind, but he bites it back. As he glances around, however, he sees his pipe has been provided on a small round table beside the chair’s arm. He takes it, sniffing suspiciously at the tobacco. His blend. “How do you do all this? The room, the baccy, all of it?”

“Practice. Anything here can be manipulated – the scenery, the temperature, the weather, objects. Yourself even, if you’re here long enough.”

Thursday narrows his eyes. “Meaning this isn’t really you,” he says, slowly.

“I didn’t say that. Our images of ourselves are very fixed – extremely difficult to change intentionally. Unintentionally, people sometimes add or drop years or weight, but turning yourself into something you’re not… that takes a long time. And it’s hard to maintain.”

Thursday picks up the pipe, feeling the smoothness of the bowl and the mouthpiece, even dipping his finger inside and feeling the oily tobacco residue: his finger comes out yellowed. He starts stuffing it, more by habit than thought. “How long have you been there, then?”

“Long enough.” When Thursday continues to watch him, he sighs. “I can’t tell you. The passage of time is very fluid here. An instant can seem an eternity, and an eternity an instant. Several years, to be inaccurate.” He doesn’t ask for the date, or further clarity. Thursday, sensing a buried nerve, leaves it for now. 

“You seem very… unaffected by it.”

“It’s my belief that how long you last is determined by your memory, and your hold on yourself. There are only two approaches to adapting to the Dreamscape: retreat into your memories and live as normal a life as you can from them, or create a new fiction for yourself, building a fantasy from your imagination. I think the latter more dangerous; you lose touch with reality faster. The other is more tedious and strained, but I’ve held out this long.”

“Have you met a Terror?” 

Cook looks away into the fire. As Thursday watches the flames twist and intertwine, forming images. Horrible images, of faces screaming and clawed, grasping fingers. “A few,” says Cook, quietly. “If you’re quick, you can escape. If not…”

A shiver runs down Thursday’s spine. There have been enough stories from those lifted out of the Dreamscape, of the screaming laughter of the Terrors, their madness driving them to trap others in their tortured dreams and keep them there until death or madness takes them too. 

_I don’t want to become a Terror_ , Cook had said. But everyone does, sooner or later. After a few years in the Dreamscape, even the most balanced individuals lose themselves. 

Thursday puts down the pipe unlit, eager to change the subject. Eager, too, to ask the question that’s really on his mind. He edges in carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “You wanted to talk to me. Why? Why not others here? Surely if you can talk to me you can talk to them.” 

Cook looks back, face drawn and tired. “I could. But we all live with the same fear, and fear it more in each other than ourselves. You can’t form friendships or even connections here. Not when you can’t trust anyone not to lose themselves at any time. I once heard that the first Dreamers tried to make villages and communes to live in. But it fell apart; too many Dreamers make the landscape too unstable. And all those souls together in one place attracts Terrors. They were picked off one by one until the villages floundered. That was decades ago; by now, all of them are Terrors.” He says it coldly, matter-of-factly. But his hands are clenched tightly on the chair’s arms, tendons raised. 

Thursday shivers. That the Dreamscape is unsafe, everyone knows. But so unsafe its captives segregate themselves and risk madness rather than taking the chance of trying to form friendships… The idea that to be a Dreamer means to live, and most likely die, alone is appalling. 

“If you give me your name I can contact your family; tell them you’re alright, make sure they’re applying for the lottery.”

Cook looks back to him slowly, blue eyes composed and, Thursday thinks, resigned. “They’ll do what they will regardless.” His tone is dry, as though he’s trying to distance himself with a sardonic attitude. 

“Minds of their own, have they?” asks Thursday, trying to smooth the waters.

Cook’s lips twist into a little, sharp smile. “Family trait.”

Thursday can well believe it of anyone related to a man strong enough to reach out from the Dreamscape to a detective in an attempt to keep himself grounded. 

Thursday takes a few drags on his pipe before going on. “You never answered my question. Why me? Why not any one of the other millions in Britain – someone famous? Someone bright. You’re obviously keen-minded.” He looks at the books surrounding them, reproduced in detail. Many are in Latin and Greek, and those in English are mostly literature and philosophy. Heady stuff. 

“Because you needed my help. And we can only reach out to those who trip onto the outskirts of the Dreamscape.” There’s a frankness to him that Thursday finds refreshing after the political, rot-soaked corruption of Cowley. Cook speaks honestly, even when it’s not in his best interest.

“So in fact, I’m just the poor bloke who stumbled in here,” says Thursday, wryly. Cook cants his head, eyes softening a little.

“I hoped you would; I knew I could help you. Most people… their problems aren’t ones they need someone like me to solve. And they don’t have the backbone to risk it, anyway.” 

“I thought you said we were safe.”

Cook runs a distracted hand through his hair. “As safe as it’s possible to be here. As safe as I can make you.”

“And you want me to come back,” continues Thursday. Cook’s hand falls away, his face taking on a sharp, watchful look, desperation in his eyes. 

“Will you?”

Thursday sighs. “I think so. Yes.” 

Cook’s eyes slip shut with relief, face smoothing again. Thursday watches closely, looking for a hint of what’s under it. Under what he’s coming to believe is, in fact, a mask – a face to hide under. “Thank you,” he breathes, looking up with such earnestness that Thursday’s heart aches. He’s not very different from a dying man clutching at a lifeline, and that line is Thursday. 

“And if I need more information on this Carlyle,” he says, afraid of seeming over-generous.

Cook nods smartly. “I’ll find it. Him, or any like him.”

“Very well then.” He reaches out and clasps Cook’s hand in a firm grip. “I’ll see you soon.”

Behind him, the world is starting to break apart. Thursday watches the fire shredding itself into sparks, and then remembers nothing else.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday wakes up and, this time, lies in bed for only a few seconds before rolling over and turning on the light to write down: Philip Carlyle, Cowley. Then, after a moment, he gets up. 

It’s still dark outside and on the landing, but Thursday doesn’t need the light to find his way. He steps across the hallway and opens the door he finds there. Stands in the doorway for a moment before flicking on the switch. 

Joan’s room is cool, the heat off and hardly seeping in from the rest of the house. Her bed is neatly made, bedding fresh and clean. He won’t have dust in here, won’t have it turning into a tomb. It will be ready for her when she comes back – when he gets her back. And if he doesn’t, he’ll get rid of the lot of it and lock the room forever, before it consumes him.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes the stakeout less than half a day to catch Carlyle, and the rest of it to find the link between him and the murdered children: he had been called to both houses to repair plumbing faults in the past three months. After that, he had simply waited until the time was right. They have receipts, finger prints, and, found in his room by DS Lott, bloody clothes which bear the blood types of the two victims. 

Thursday’s never worked a case backwards before – it turns out to be much easier than working it forwards. 

“But what made you suspect him in the first place?” asks Crisp, as Thursday finishes going over the case they’ve built up against Carlyle. He’s sitting behind his desk with his hands clenching a pen tightly, bulldoggish as ever. 

“Luck, mostly sir. Just trying to think of other possible ties between the two families.”

“Some luck,” allows Crisp. “Well, we got the bastard off the street, that counts for something. Even if…”

It was too late for some. The words go unspoken. Thursday rises. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, you’re alright. Good work, Thursday.”

Thursday gives a ghost of a smile and steps out of his superior’s office, secret gnawing at his insides. But no good comes of the Dreamscape; that is one inescapable truth known to everyone. He’ll earn no praise for relying on the help of a Dreamer, probably the opposite. 

He goes back to his desk and continues checking on Lott’s processing of the evidence. 

\------------------------------------------------

He waits nearly a week before going back, nearly a week before walking past the empty room every night makes him fold and pull the record from its sleeve. 

Thursday falls asleep to the soulful voice of Rosalind Calloway, and wakes up to it. Overhead the deep blue sky is accentuated by the occasional white flash of a gull. The air is thick with the smell of salt, his ears full with the dull crashing of waves. He sits up to find himself on a sandy beach lying on a blanket. Beside him, trouser legs rolled up and feet buried in sand, is Cook. He’s sitting on a piece of driftwood, minding the turntable balanced at his side with the fretful care of a new parent. 

The beach is lined with rough, golden dune grass, drawing a divide between it and the miles of empty fields stretching away behind it. It’s nothing like the rocky, cliff-lined beaches he visited very occasionally as a boy, nor yet the bloody beachhead at Reggio. “Where is this?” he asks, as Cook stops the record. He pauses for a moment, wetting his lips with his tongue, before answering. “Up the coast a ways,” he says, vaguely. “Do you like it?”

Thursday considers. “Nice enough. Good for paddling, I imagine, but a bit brisk for a swim.” The beach is long and bare, unprotected by cliffs or outcroppings, and even in the sun the whistling wind brings a chill. 

“Yes.” Cook looks out to the sea; today the water is sparkling, made lighter by the pale sand beneath. It’s nearly the same colour as his eyes, bright with reflected sun. “But there’s nothing like it in Oxford.”

“You know it,” says Thursday, pointedly. When Cook looks back blankly at him he elaborates: “Oxford.”

Cook reaches up slowly to screen his eyes from the sun, the sudden shadow turning them closer to grey. “Does it matter?”

“You know as much as you care to about me, but won’t even give me your proper Christian name. Not much by the way of fair trade.” Thursday keeps his voice carefully neutral, far from fishing.

Cook considers, folding his fingers loosely, hands hanging between his knees. He’s looking out to sea again, wind blowing his white hair to and fro. “I’ve spent some time in Oxford,” he admits slowly. 

“At the University.” It’s less a question than a statement. The man is obviously bright, with hands that haven’t seen toil and an accent which suggests either breeding or good education. Cook cants his head in agreement. 

“What’s your area?”

“I trained in Greats; an education in thinking as much as subject. For myself, I prefer this though.” He pulls a small brown book from his pocket and hands it to Thursday. It’s an old poetry anthology printed on onion-skin paper, each poem carefully typed. Thursday flips through the pages, reading a few of them. It’s impressive less for its content than what it represents.

“You know these all off by heart,” he wonders as he looks through it. The authors are numerous, the poems in a multitude of styles, from Shakespeare to Coleridge to Elliot. But they’re each and every one of them complete. Cook shrugs.

“An education in memorisation, as well. It’s no great feat. It may be what has kept me occupied this long.” He unlocks his fingers to run them carefully over the surface of his record, a gesture filled with nostalgia. 

“Don’t you want to hear something new? See something else?” Thursday glances from the deserted beach to Cook, who looks over at him with hungry eyes.

“ _Yes._ ”

Thursday stands, sand shifting underfoot. “You took the image of Mersa Matruh from my memories,” he says, remembering the dry desert landscape. “Can’t you do it again?”

Cook stands, record player forgotten. “You can. Just – close your eyes and picture yourself somewhere else. Imagine it as strongly as you can, the smell, the sounds. Can you do that?”

Thursday raises a querulous eyebrow, but does as he’s told. Shuts his eyes, and _imagines_. The sound of the ocean disappears, as does the rough wind. When he opens his eyes again he’s looking at rolling Italian foothills, warm-coloured buildings peeping out here and there from between the green orchards and olive groves. Above, unfamiliar birds are singing; in the distance, a river trickles over smooth stones. 

They had stopped for only a few minutes on the way to Cassino, just long enough for the tired soldiers to rest bones weary from miles in unsprung trucks and relieve themselves at the roadside. 

He turns to find Cook at his side looking around curiously. His face has softened again, losing some of its wrinkles, while his form seems a little slimmer. Thursday looks carefully, noting the differences: the man loses his disguise when distracted, or at least the edges of it. 

“Where is this?” asks Cook, watching a brightly-coloured bird swoop by overhead.

“On the way to Cassino. Only been here once. Looked a bit different then – or at least, the company I was with managed that.” 

Cook’s eyes tighten, face aging again. “This is where you wanted to come?”

“Always wondered what it’d be like without us. The war – troops, guns, mortars.” He shrugs. “Never thought I’d get the chance. When we left Cassino, it was nothing more than rubble. Wanted to know what it could have been; maybe, what it went back to. Something like this, I hope.”

Italian jasmine is growing up the grey trunk a half-dead olive tree; Cook reaches out to smell it. “No scent,” he comments, sounding disappointed. Thursday smiles.

“It doesn’t have any, the Italian kind. Don’t know why. Everything else here did.”

“Is this the way you remember it?” asks Cook, turning with a flower in hand. 

For an instant, it’s as though the world is holding its breath. Then, with sudden violence the bright skies have turned to cloud and rain is pouring down. Not rain – it’s red, drenching the landscape, the thick metallic scent making Thursday choke. The peaceful hills melt away in the red haze to be replaced by burnt-out buildings, the grassy ground covered in hewn stone. And, in the bloody mud around them, bodies fade in from the shadows, men torn to pieces by mortar fire and rifles. Thursday steps back, staring, and Cook grabs his arm in a tight grip. “Close your eyes. _Now._ ”

He speaks with such authority that Thursday does it, gagging on the smell. 

When he opens them again there’s only the soft scent of musty books and starch. He’s back in the same small bedsit as his earlier visits, curtains closed and all the lights on to give the tiny flat a warm, homey feel. An iron sits on a rickety board by the door, black robes draped over it; on the desk books are piled unevenly, so many open that they cover the surface of the desk. 

“I’m sorry,” says Cook, sounding wretched and desperate. He releases Thursday’s arm and backs away. “I didn’t mean – didn’t want – I’m sorry.”

He looks much younger now, wavy white hair darkening towards golden-red, face smoothing and tightening to reveal narrower, more angular features. Only his eyes remain unchanged – in this instant they’re wide with anguish. 

“It’s alright,” says Thursday, stiffly, gritting the words out. He feels cold, the way he does sometimes late at night when the war slips into the forefront of his mind and he remembers that smell, blood mixed with gun power. The chill seeps deep into his bones until even a bath won’t chase it away. Win’s touch used to, the warmth of her body beside his, her arms around him holding him tightly to her until her scent replaced the other. 

Now there’s only an empty bed, and the bottle of scotch when that becomes unbearable. 

Behind Cook, the walls darken and then begin to break up, shattering silently. He turns to Thursday, making to reach out and then restraining himself. “Please,” he says quietly, face full of need. 

“It’s alright,” says Thursday again, forcing himself to put some warmth into the words. It shouldn’t be – it will take days to erase the memory from his mind. But the horror in Cook’s suddenly young face – the horror of having hurt him – makes Thursday pause and bite back his anger. 

Besides, it’s not as though he has no choice.

Not if he wants to find Joan. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Thursday spends the rest of the night sitting in Joan’s dark room, listening to rain patter against the glass. It’s not an infrequent ending to his more fitful nights, although he’s careful always to be gone by the time Sam wakes up; his son doesn’t need to fear losing him to the Dreamscape. 

Thursday picks up a photo from the desk, taken on Joan’s 16th birthday. Win and the kids gathered behind a chocolate cake smiling happily at the camera, Sam’s hand creeping unwatched towards the icing. 

He passes his thumb over the faces in the photograph, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. It’s been a long time since he knew how to feel whole. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

He tells Lott the next morning to drop him off at Avalon. “Don’t worry about staying; I’ll call for a ride,” he says, as they take the turn-off. 

“Going to visit Mrs Fletcher?” Lott asks. “Thought you said it was a waste of time.” 

Thursday shrugs. “Thought someone should tell her we caught her son’s killer. Family don’t often come calling.” No one wants to fall in after a new Dreamer. 

Lott sniffs. “Don’t see the point, guv’nor. They can’t hear you. Best thing they can do is stay there and keep quiet.”

Thursday takes a deep breath, pushing down the swell of anger as he exhales. 

“Think they’ve made the world a better place, do you?” he asks, keeping emotion out of his tone. Lott cocks his head, tossing off his rote answer without much thought.

“I think crime’s down and employment’s up. Not a bad thing.”

“At a lower cost, maybe.” They pull up outside the looming building that is Oxford’s closest haven, an Avalon all their own. The saccharine terms make Thursday’s teeth ache, but Lott’s are no better. 

He gets out before Lott can retort, shutting the Jag’s door behind him. He hears the car pull off behind him while he looks up at the square-stanced building, rows and rows of square windows set in unadorned grey cinderblocks. Purpose-built just after the war, it’s cheap and functional. Inside the walls are plaster and the floors linoleum. He checks in with the young woman at the desk and gets the number for Mrs Fletcher. 

She’s down on the first floor, with other new arrivals. Not yet moved to a long-term bed; it’s possible she may still be allocated a dose of the vaccine from the supplies kept for new victims. 

He walks past the double doors into the second ward on the floor, and is hit by the smell of cleaning fluids and re-circulated air. The room is a wide one, beds on each side just like a hospital ward. But here there are no curtains, no hurrying nurses, no bedside tables adorned with flowers and gifts. Just dozens of beds lining both sides of the long room, packed tightly together and mostly unattended. At the end of the ward sits a bored-looking aide; seeing to the bodily needs of dozens of sleepers is a thankless task. 

He follows the numbers on the bed until he finds the bed anonymously numbered 036. In the bed, sees the woman he recognizes from his interviews. She’s lying asleep with an IV in her arm and a tube in her mouth, her long hair gathered in a loose tie at the back of her head. There’s always a surrealness at seeing someone asleep for the first time; it’s a sensation Thursday has grown used to over the past two decades. 

There’s no chair at the bedside; visitors are rare, even to new patients. Too much risk, in the eyes of most. He stands instead, looking down at the unconscious woman. “We caught the bastard,” he says, the growl of his voice loud in the hush. 

He stays for a few moments more before walking back down the ward and out into the main corridor. From there he takes the stairs up two storeys and comes out on the corridor, looking at the doors leading to silent wards. He treads the route he’s long since memorized, down the hall to the end and left. Ward 11, no different from any of its neighbours. 

Except for one thing, he thinks as he comes to a stop by bed 260. This one holds his daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday doesn’t go back until his next murder. He has to play this slow, can’t afford to tip Cook off to the fact that he needs more from him than the dreams of killers. Not yet. 

He wakes up lying on a bench in a dark stone corridor – a cloister, he recognizes as his eyes adjust and he sits up. The cloister surrounding Magdalen’s quad, in fact. The day is grey, a light drizzle falling; the air is thick with the scent of it. The white hydrangeas lining the edge of the cloisters soak it up, their leaves drooping with its weight. 

Standing beside him, Cook takes the needle off the record. “Have you ever listened to the whole thing, Inspector?” he asks, watching the rain. 

Thursday sits up, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, once.” He had thought perhaps it might tell him more about this man wrapped in secrecy. It had only cemented his dislike for opera.

Cook smiles, the corner of his mouth crooking up. “Some people find it a little too…”

“Operatic?” suggests Thursday, a smile in his eyes. Cook ducks his head, hands slipping into his pockets. There’s something endearing about the shyness of his reaction, the way he takes the amusement into himself and enjoys it there, quietly. 

“Something like that.” After a moment he turns and leans against one of the inset windows, bordered by carved stone frames. “Thank you. For coming back,” he elaborates when Thursday looks quizzical. 

“Takes more than bad memories to scare me away; them, I’m used to.” Thursday settles down from breeziness to business, straightening up against the bench. “I need your help.”

Cook raises his eyebrows. “I hadn’t realised there were so many murders in Oxford.”

“There aren’t, as a rule. Perhaps you’re bringing bad luck. In any case, we manage the whole of the shire and some of the neighbouring regions these days for just that reason – too few crimes.”

“The benefits of the Dreamscape?” Cook asks, dryly. 

“So some say.” His bagman, for one. 

“Not you?”

Thursday stands, looking out through the stone window at the quad. The cloisters are full of the soft whisper of rain, the hydrangeas shivering under it. “If it only took criminals, that would be one thing. But it’s indiscriminate of guilt, and a sickness that attacks anyone with enough trauma in their life is nothing to celebrate,” he replies, voice heavy. He looks to Cook wordlessly, but the man stares back expressionlessly, and Thursday can’t ask. Can’t question why he fell, what upset in his life made him vulnerable to Oneiros and the Dreamscape. He’s sure Cook wouldn’t tell him anyway. 

“Did you need something, Inspector?” asks Cook quietly, taking his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms loosely over his chest. It’s a welcome change of topic.

“Since you asked.” Thursday straightens, sighing. “Simple murder – open and shut. Wife kills her husband with a kitchen knife. She’s not admitted it, but she’s not doing much of a job denying it. He’d a record of battery, and a tendency towards heavy drinking.”

Cook’s mouth tightens. “Where do I come in, then?”

“Something feels off about it. She’s got fight in her, a spark. She’s practically raised their daughter alone, and kept a job while doing it. She’s not the type to just roll over. Not if she really did it.”

“You think she’s hiding something?”

“Maybe. A case like this, I’m not going to get much in the way of time or resources. My boss is pushing for it to be closed. Fine, if she did it.”

“But if not…” Cook cants his head in a half-shrug. “I can see what I can find.”

“Thank you.” He reaches out of the window, runs his finger down the rain-dappled leaf of the nearest plant. It comes away damp; he still marvels at how realistic this world is. “Is this your college?”

He looks back to find Cook watching him, looking all of his disguise’s 50-something years. “No,” he answers, after a minute. “Just one I admire.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Their suspect, Marianne Dutton, isn’t talking. Crisp is starting to turn up the heat on Thursday, pushing for him to close the case. But when he checks in with Cook in the early hours of the morning, the man can only report no progress yet. 

They sit instead and talk, mostly in places of Cook’s choosing, sometimes Thursday’s: Oxford benches, college halls, grassy knolls overlooking green valleys. They talk, sometimes philosophy and poetry (no strong point of Thursday’s, but one Cook enjoys and speaks well on), sometimes police work and soldiering (a closed book to Cook, but one he seems to like hearing about). Sometimes Cook plays records, mostly classical rather than his collection of opera – like his poetry, it is impeccably memorized, never missing a note. While still not his taste, Thursday has the sense Cook is looking to impress him, and whether or not that’s true, Thursday is impressed. 

It’s been, Thursday realises, a long time since he made the time or effort to simply talk to someone for the sake of the conversation. And Cook, when he’s not on edge and trying to deflect attention, is good company. Quiet but kind-hearted, keen to please, and very quick on the uptake. He would make a good policeman, Thursday thinks. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

“Thursday,” barks Crisp, as he cuts briskly into Thursday’s office. “Dutton. Where are we?”

Thursday looks up from the case statements, wincing as he gives himself a paper cut. “Just tying off the last –”

“I want her charged. Unless you have solid evidence to advise otherwise?” He raises his eyebrows, all impatience and irritation in a well-tailored suit. Crisp has taste if not money, and his wife apparently has an eye for bargains.

“Give me until the end of the week, sir. I’ve got a feeling about this one…”

Crisp gives him a long, hard stare; Thursday stares back. “Two more days, then. No more. Can’t spare you on investigations going nowhere,” he says turning to go. 

“Thank you, sir.”

\----------------------------------------------------

This time it’s a chapel. Very old, with inset marble floors in a checkerboard pattern and dusty wooden pews carved in an austere style. Probably one of the college chapels, although Thursday doesn’t recognize it. The acoustics are excellent; Rosalind Stromming’s voice reverberates with ease and beauty. It stops as he sits up, though, Cook sitting on the pew beside him. “I still don’t have anything,” he says perfunctorily, sounding on edge. “I need more time.”

Thursday had told him the last time they met that there were unlikely to be more extensions. “Wives killing husbands isn’t enough to go on, nor names – few people use their names in their dreams. Not regularly.”

“Like you?” says Thursday, evenly. Cook looks back, blue eyes sharp. And, he thinks, a little wounded.

“That’s different. Regardless, it isn’t enough.”

Thursday sighs, leaning forward to rest his wrists on the back of the pew in front of them. “You have two more nights. That’s it; then we close it and charge Mrs Dutton.” He doesn’t bother to sound pleased about it – he doesn’t have to hide his opinions from Cook. 

Cook runs a hand roughly through his hair, voice terse and frustrated. “I need something more to go on. Two nights or twenty, I doubt I can find her with what you’ve given me.” He lowers his hand, looking over to Thursday. “Can you show me? Just –”

But Thursday’s already shutting his eyes. Remembering the crime scene, Paul Dutton’s corpse spread out on the floor of his grungy sitting room. And opens his eyes to see the scene recreated. The nicotine-stained cream wallpaper, the empty glasses and bottles, the pop-eyed body curled beside the armchair in a pool of glinting blood and piss. There’s blood running in a drying river from his mouth – the knife nicked his lung.

Beside him, there’s a quiet, sick moan. Thursday looks over to see the years dropping from Cook to leave behind a fair, angular young man, his freckled skin blanching. He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing above his tie, and then starts to tip. Thursday twists hurriedly and grabs him, lowering him to the floor. He’s nearly entirely limp, skating on the edge of unconsciousness. 

Around them the world blurs, their surroundings fading into a dizzying blur of muted colour. Thursday sits Cook down, his long legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him, and shoves his head down low. “Breathe,” he orders, loosening the tie and collar from behind. “Just breathe.” He kneels at Cook’s side and starts to rub his narrow back with his right hand, feeling him starting to shake with the chill of shock. After a minute he reaches out shakily to grip Thursday’s left sleeve, twisting his fingers in the fabric as he takes deep, even breaths.

Thursday can see some of the older Cook in him – the line of his brow, the angle of his cheekbones, and most of all his eyes. The image of a father, perhaps, or uncle, co-opted to act as a disguise. The true Cook, if this is him, has unruly golden-red hair, loosely curled to tumble over his ears and forehead. The angle of his jaw and cheekbones is sharp, his face narrow with the leanness of youth. His profile is somewhat ungainly, all sharpness and over-definition. But as he turns to look raggedly at Thursday, his features come together to form a fair whole – a fragile elegance. 

Thursday swallows, and finds his throat dry. 

But Cook is looking past him, over his shoulder at the darkness beyond. From far away comes a quiet hissing noise, like rice grains being poured into a pot. Thursday turns to look and only catches sight of a distant flicker of light, no more than a match-strike. Then Cook is grabbing him and pulling him down and – 

The world shifts. He’s lying on his stomach in hard, dry earth. There’s a smell of dirt, and of cold stone. He’s in some sort of cave, its ceiling only a couple of feet high. Several yards off to his right he can see daylight and a stretch of grass. It’s the kind of place a young boy would love, an underground world to explore, hardly accessible to an adult: a place to get wonderfully dirty without earning the immediate censor of a parent. 

He notices all of this without paying much attention to it. A substantial part of his brain is more concerned with focusing on the fact that Cook is lying half on top of him, pressing him down and holding a hand over his mouth. He can feel the warmth of Cook’s body, feel Cook’s breath against his ear, feel the racing tattoo of Cook’s heart. He is suddenly, guiltily glad to be lying bottom-most. 

It’s been a long time since he allowed himself to spend time with anyone. He hasn’t thought much about companionship in any sense – including romantic – since Win’s death. At first it was grief, then guilt. Now it’s just habit. But before the past two years, Thursday had never been one to lead a monastic life; he and Win had had a full marriage, and before that his charm and good nature had talked him into more than a few beds – not all of them a woman’s. Thursday has always appreciated a pretty face and a good heart, beyond that, he’s never much been particular. 

With Cook’s warmth pressed up close to him, the smell of his skin and hair very present even over the cool earth’s pungency, Thursday suddenly feels the two years of celibacy very keenly. The only thing which stops him feeling it more keenly still is the ever-present hiss, and Cook’s hand over his mouth. 

The hiss is getting louder. 

As it approaches, it becomes clearer. It’s more of a rattle, dozens of pebbles being shaken. No – not pebbles. Teeth, Thursday realises, all thoughts of rolling Cook over disappearing sharply. The sound is of teeth being rattled against each other, the clicking of their tiny enamel forms against each other. He tries to turn towards Cook but is elbowed sharply in the side; he stops and lies flat instead. 

There are bursts of light coming from outside, like bright spotlights being turned on and off. Like the soundless burst of carpet bombing. They’re growing closer, becoming brighter as they near. Thursday realises Cook’s heartbeat is speeding up, running towards panic. He stiffens, staring out at the tiny patch of outside visible from the cave, and tries to quiet his breathing. There’s only one thing that could terrify Cook here in a world of his own making. 

Terrors. 

It’s impossible to say how many Dreamers have lost themselves – their minds, their sanity – after years being trapped alone in a false world. No official estimates have ever been released. But some say that for every one Dreamer there are a hundred Terrors who roam the Dreamscape hungry for a thrill, for terror and violence. To trap Dreamers in their endless nightmares until they too lose their minds.

The Dreamscape breeds Terrors, but so too do Terrors. 

The rattling comes nearer, teeth being shaken in a glass jar. Thursday shivers, trying to silently dig himself further into the dirt. By his side Cook is curling closer to him, burying his face in the crook of Thursday’s neck. His breath is warm on Thursday’s throat, his hair tickling Thursday’s jaw. 

Directly outside, flash-bangs are going off, dazzling the landscape with blinding light and deafening cracks like bone breaking. Thursday closes his eyes, intertwining his fingers with Cook’s and holding on. They are powerless here, voles before a hawk, and all there is to do is stay dead still and hope not to catch attention. 

Thursday finds himself counting his breaths. It’s an old habit picked up in fox holes back in North Africa; it works, as much as anything can.

Eventually, after what seems an eternity but is only 65 breaths, the rattling moves off into the distance.

Thursday feels Cook shift against him, pulling away. “It’s not safe here. You need to wake up. Now,” he whispers, barely audible. Thursday turns over.

“How –” he begins, and gets no further. Cook is holding an old Smith & Wesson .38; once an old police revolver, it had seen a second life as one of Britain’s steadfast side arms in the war. Thursday recognizes it from both its lives: smaller caliber than the .45, less kick-back. And, since peace, plenty have been available; it’s not the first time he’s had one pointed at him. 

“If you die here, you’ll wake up,” says Cook, face a study in apprehension. Thursday’s heart leaps, throat closing to choke him as adrenaline plunges his system into overdrive. 

“Don’t – what about –”

But Cook has already raised the gun. In the instant before the explosion of light and sound, Thursday sees his face: wracked with anguish, eyes squinting, lip caught between his teeth. 

Thursday sees the explosion of gunpowder in the barrel, a lightning strike in the darkness of the cave. 

He wakes up.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Thursday spends the rest of the night sitting in bed in the grey of his room, staring at the silent record player. There’s no point trying to go back tonight; there’s no chance of his falling asleep. In the dimness he keeps seeing Cook’s face in the instant before he pulled the trigger. The fear on his face, and the agony. 

\----------------------------------------------------

The day crawls by, an interminable series of irritating encounters and failures. No new evidence on Mrs Dutton, no leads, no ability to confirm her whereabouts – upstairs, like her daughter, both alone in their rooms. Crisp, at least, has the grace to stay out of his hair. 

That night he listens to the entire record through twice before falling asleep. He drifts for a long time in vague, undefined dreams of grey landscapes and faceless shadows. 

When the dreams sharpen into shape and substance, he recognizes himself to be on a boat rocking with the waves, a jagged line of greenish-brown coast on the horizon and sea birds wheeling overhead. He remembers this – the nervousness in his gut, the smell of salt coating the boat’s wooden bottom, the cries of the gulls. The Italian coastline in the distance, growing ever nearer.

He looks up and sees Cook sitting on the side of the boat beside him, dressed once again in uniform. He’s his older self, white hair ruffling in the breeze. “Not here,” Thursday says, roughly. Cook nods.

The transport boat fades away, replaced by Cook’s flat – his sanctuary, Thursday is coming to think. He’s sitting on Cook’s bed, Cook in his shirtsleeves leaning against a short shelf at its head. 

“Don’t bother with the false identity. Please,” he says, when Cook starts to protest. “You’ve already given it away.”

Cook looks uncertain, but after a minute rubs a hand across his face. Like a time-lapse film, he ages backwards very quickly, hair turning red, face tightening and thinning, weight disappearing to leave him a thin man in his late 20s. He drops his hand away and crosses it awkwardly over his chest, holding his opposite elbow. “I’m sorry, Thursday.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “For the disguise, or for shooting me?”

“Both. Mainly the disguise,” he amends, tilting his head. “You were in danger staying, and you were a liability. I’m safer in the Dreamscape; you’re safer anywhere but here.” 

Thursday nods, slowly. “Is this too dangerous?”

He realises, even as he asks, that he doesn’t want it to be. Doesn’t want to end this friendship, this collaboration. Doesn’t want to leave Cook alone, doesn’t want to be left alone. 

“As long as we don’t drop out of a dream, we’re nearly as safe here at the edges. It’s losing that cover that allowed it to find us. Once they find you, it’s hard to shake them off.” He rubs his thumb over his elbow, fidgeting. “If you’re willing to take the risk… I shouldn’t ask, but I hope you’ll come back,” he says, softly. 

Thursday smiles gently, relief blossoming in his chest. Relief, and an ice-tinged pump of excitement at the prospect of what might be possible. “Then I will.”

“Thank you.” He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I think I have something for you, but I doubt you’ll like it.”

“About Mrs Dutton? She did it after all?”

Morse looks at him, a shade of pain in his face. “No. I don’t think so. It wasn’t her dream I found the answers in.” 

“Then who?”

“Someone much younger. And more vulnerable.” He walks over to his desk and takes a few photos from its surface, hands them to Thursday. Dutton shouting at his wife in their sitting room as seen from the doorway, the walls and furniture a blur of colour. Dutton striking her down with a hard blow to the shoulder probably meant for her head. And then, appearing from nowhere, a knife in a small hand. A knife whose point is in Dutton’s chest.

“The daughter,” he breathes. “Jane.”

“I can only guess that the mother took her daughter upstairs. Destroyed anything with blood stains, and cleaned the knife before calling the police. I’m sure she hoped there wouldn’t be enough evidence, or that someone else would be blamed. But she couldn’t put up a proper defense without leaving her daughter vulnerable.” He sits down in his desk chair, wood creaking under him. “Will she be charged?”

“If Jane isn’t, yes. But the evidence is circumstantial; a jury might not convict. If Jane admits to it, she’ll be treated as a child and receive much greater leniency.”

Cook straightens, eyes snapping. “You’ll put her on trial? Her mother was being beaten – certainly not for the first time. Her dreams were nothing but misery and fear. It’s amazing she hasn’t fallen.” 

Thursday hardens. “And you know that, but no one else does. I’ll do my best by them, but we can’t play judge and jury. Else the whole thing crumbles.”

Cook sinks back, turning away. “Maybe it already has,” he says, mostly to himself. 

Thursday stands, steps over to put his hands on Cook’s shoulders. “It hasn’t. And if anything’s unfair it’s that you’re trapped here, that so many are while the world goes on turning. But we can’t stop believing in the things that matter because of it. We can’t give in.”

He’s told himself the same words, over and over. He believes them because he has to. Because without them he is nothing. Cook looks up, their faces inches apart, and Thursday sees Cook’s intention in his clear eyes. He pulls away before Cook can lean in, before their lips can meet. His heart is hammering in his chest, stomach twisting with a sudden attack of the nerves.

“I’m sorry,” stutters Cook, jumping to his feet and stepping hurriedly away. He retreats to the end of the room by the cooker, shoving his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – I just –” he trails off into silence, a picture of apprehension. 

“It’s not that,” Thursday forces himself to say. “It’s not you – you’re – I wish I could. Wish I were free to. But I’m not.”

“There’s someone else,” says Cook, quietly. “I understand.”

Thursday watches him standing upright and alone in the corner, arms crossed over his chest and fingers fisted in his sleeves. The light falling from the overhead bulbs brings out the streaks of blond in his hair, making a soft halo of his head as he stands in front of the window and a suddenly darkened sky. 

“There is, but not in the way you mean,” says Thursday, taking the plunge. He gets up and follows Cook until they’re only feet apart. He produces his wallet, and from it the photo he carries there; Sam and Joan sitting together on the sofa, smiling. “My daughter. Joan. She’s in here, somewhere.” 

He sighs, chest tight. “I need to find her. Need to make sure she’s alright, tell her I’m doing my best to bring her home. It’s not fair of me to ask that of you; but it’d be far worse to coerce you into it if we… meant something to each other,” he finishes, struggling to find the words. 

Cook stares at him for several seconds, eyes soft and sympathetic. Then he reaches out and takes the photograph, studies it. “I’ve seen her before. In your dreams.”

Thursday nods once, wordlessly. 

“I don’t know if I can find her. We hide ourselves well – you’ve seen why.”

“I have no other option,” says Thursday, honestly. “It’s not fair of me to ask your help, but…”

Cook looks at him decisively. “It is. You shouldn’t have waited so long.” He hands the photo back. “I don’t need this; I’ll remember.”

Thursday reaches out to take his hand; forces himself to go through with it even after he starts to withdraw. Cook’s hand is warm and firm. “Thank you.” He closes his eyes, trying to let go of the future he had started building with Cook, start a new one with Joan. “Thank you.”

Cook smiles sadly. “I’ll do my best, Inspector.”

Thursday takes his hand back, slipping it into his pocket; he can still feel the warmth there. “Call me Fred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse's .38/200 S&W is, of course, the revolver he learned to shoot with.


	4. Chapter 4

For some reason, Thursday had assumed things would move quickly after that. Cook would find Joan, he would finally see his daughter.

In fact, as days turn to weeks, Cook finds nothing. No trace of Joan, no contact, no clues.

It takes Thursday a while to realise why he had thought otherwise against all odds, and realises he’s come to rely on Cook. Come to trust him, where maybe he shouldn’t. But the man is so easy to trust, and to confide in. 

“It was my Win,” he says sadly, sitting in the corner of his favourite pub on a winter’s day, a fire blazing in the fireplace nearby. “Killed in a fire while she was staying over with her sister. Damn near tore my heart out. But it did worse to Joan.”

“That’s why…” begins Cook; he doesn’t have to finish. Thursday nods once before taking a long draught of his beer. 

“We hung all those bastards at Nuremburg. Don’t know why we didn’t do the same to those as unleashed Oneiros.” It had been hotly debated, but in the end a virus hadn’t been a chemical weapon – and hadn’t killed. Not at first. With nearly fourteen years passing until the immensely costly vaccine had been produced, no one had known that a decade of Dreamers had slipped away, hadn’t been safe even in their sleep. Efforts to prosecute based on this first use of biological weapons since the signing of the Geneva Protocols showed the Protocols too vague in their wording to stand any chance of conviction. 

He puts his stein down on the mat and sighs, watching the amber liquid inside still. “Suppose you’re too young to remember. Or are you?” He puts a little humour into the words, but for all that, he’s still not completely sure the face he sees in his dreams these days is in fact the true one. Since taking on his younger appearance Cook hasn’t had any trouble maintaining it; no more fluidity in his age or weight when his temper flares. 

“That again?” Cook sips at his own drink, a well-iced lemonade. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or swear. He was raised by his mother, a Quaker, Thursday had learned a while back, and even if by his own admission her faith hadn’t stuck some of her lifestyle had. “I am what I imagine myself to be. Out there, who knows,” he says, in a rare moment of transparency. 

Thursday rests his elbows on the table, leaning in. “Whatever it is you don’t want me to know, I won’t care. I promise.” Cook is no criminal, that he’s absolutely sure of. There’s nothing Thursday can imagine him guilty of that would change Thursday’s opinion of him; he’s seen enough to know that. What he might think himself guilty of is another matter entirely. He’s coming to realise that for all his confidence and intellect, Cook has a heart of glass.

Cook takes a long, slow drink, eyes on Thursday; Thursday feels heat begin to rise under his collar, forcefully suppresses an increase in his breathing. “It isn’t about you, Fred,” he says at last, lowering his glass.

He is, as always, a terrible liar. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

The weeks tick by. A dismembered body is found in a muddy field out near Reading, too mangled for identification; Thursday doesn’t wait for the investigation to catch up before bringing it to Cook this time. 

“Are you sure you want me to focus on this?” Cook asks, sitting at his desk. Bach is playing behind him, a cello suite full of rich tones that reminds Thursday of warm spring sunshine. “I still haven’t –”

“I know,” replies Thursday, heavily. “But I don’t take precedence over murder. This comes first.”

Cook inclines his head. “Alright.” He gets up and looks out the window; it’s dusk outside, sky painted in shades of pink torn through with dove-grey clouds. Thursday looks past him to the old crenulated buildings across the street, and beyond it the distant spires rising skyward. 

“A city of dreaming spires,” says Cook, dryly, as though reading his mind. “I can’t imagine Arnold is much in favour these days around Oxford.” 

“No,” agrees Thursday. Although his knowledge of poetry is feeble despite Cook’s efforts, that quote is still on the tongues of Oxford’s residents – these days, usually when referring to Avalon. Far more important than his own surprising recognition of the words, though, is the fact of them. This flat, Cook’s refuge, is in Oxford. It’s a student’s residence, he’s seen enough in his time to know. Which means Cook was in Oxford not long before he fell; maybe even when he did. 

Still, it doesn’t matter very much. He’ll never be able to search any Avalon registry without better reason than he has. And even if he could, he has no name to search for.

\---------------------------------------------------------

It takes Cook three days to find the murderer – or rather, the killer. The victim was the owner of the farm where his body was found; he died in a farmyard accident. The man responsible for his death was a hired hand who, focused on the work behind him, accidentally caught the farmer in the combine when the man tripped before it. Panicked, the labourer cleaned the equipment and fled the scene, but not his nightmares. 

They’re sitting out on a gentle hill looking out over miles of green land. In the distance, soft verdant hills rise from the earth; off to the right a stand of oaks shivers in the soft breeze. Above, songbirds twitter to each other as they swoop through the air. Here on the rise there are poppies spread out all around them, bobbing and bowing as the wind catches their bright orange petals. 

“Don’t know how you do it,” says Thursday, when Cook has finished reporting his findings. Cook, staring out over the fields with his eyes focused for distance, turns. 

“I’ve told you – people bring traumatic experiences into their dreams. It’s how this place catches its victims.”

Thursday shakes his head, plucking a blade of grass and watching it twist in the wind. “I mean, out of the billions of people dreaming, how you find the right one.”

Cook rubs at his ear, deep in thought. “That’s because it’s not billions,” he says slowly, almost reluctantly, after a moment. “The Dreamscape is less one larger puddle than thousands of raindrops teased apart by geography; different Dreamers in different places. Most everyone I’ve ever seen speaks English, and even in Britain there are divisions – few Scots or Geordies here. For better or worse we see the same faces, the same dreams.”

Thursday feels a momentary surge of anxiety, fear’s tiny spears stabbing at him from inside his gut. “Then Joan – if she’s too far away…”

Cook looks at him, silent and watchful, and Thursday takes himself in hand. Cook’s caught Oxford killers; he must be nearby.

 _He must be nearby_ , Thursday thinks again, more slowly. Somewhere he’s confident of being able to help Thursday from. After Oxford, the closest Avalon is Swindon. Is he in Oxford now?

The thought sends shivers down his spine.

“I want to meet you, someday,” he says abruptly, spurred by his tingling nerves. “Out there – in the real world. I’m not family, I can’t submit an application for you, but let me support yours. You’re helping police enquiries – it will add weight.”

In Cook’s suddenly-wide eyes, Thursday sees real fear. Then the lad’s standing, dusting off his trousers and starting down the gentle slope. Thursday scrambles up and follows him. “Oi – wait –”

“James,” provides Cook, turning abruptly. “You never call me by name.”

“It’s not your real name,” says Thursday evenly. 

“ _Nothing here is real_.” Cook swivels, poppies shedding soft petals at his feet as he tramples them. Overhead the sky is clouding over, birds falling silent and disappearing. “Why does it matter?”

“You’re real. You’re not part of this,” he waves at the surrounding countryside.

“Maybe I want to be,” hisses Cook, face flushed and eyes flashing. In the distance, thunder rumbles. “Maybe I _like_ it here, where there’s order and my word is law.” 

Thursday stops directly in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a bad liar,” he tells Cook, softly. Cook stares back at him, dregs of his anger holding him together for a second before the mask cracks and falls away. There’s an instant of fear and despair, and then Cook turns away. 

Thursday reaches around and pulls the lad into a loose embrace from behind, arm draped over his collar bone. “I’m sorry. I don’t know –” _I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what you’re trying to hide. I don’t know what to do for you_. None of them fit. “What can I do?”

Cook is standing stiffly, but after a moment he relaxes, leans back against Thursday’s weight. He has a pleasant smell to him, parchment paper and beeswax. Thursday wonders how his skin tastes, closing his eyes to keep from focusing on the sharp line of the lad’s jaw. Christ, it’s been a long time since he wanted someone. 

“You’re doing it,” says Cook, tipping his weight backwards. They sit down together abruptly in a shower of orange flowers. “You stayed.” Sun peeks out through the clouds; a light shower starts to fall, painting a pale rainbow. 

He turns his head, smiling as the sun-shower speckles his skin with raindrops. Thursday’s heart constricts and he pulls Cook closer, damning his reservations. 

Behind him, fissures run through the sky, splintering it into fragments. 

“No – wait –”

But his sight is already fading to black.

Thursday wakes up alone in bed. He lies there for several minutes in the dark, breathing slowing, arm spread to feel the empty bed beside him. Eventually he turns the light on, glancing at the second, untouched pillow. Then he gets up and goes downstairs to have a drink.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Thursday tries to fill his days with activities to ground him, the things that remind him who he is. 

He and Lott find the farm hand and take him in for questioning and pull the whole story from him. They eventually charge him with manslaughter; likely his sentence will be light in regards of the accidental nature of the death. Crisp congratulates them for closing the case quickly; Thursday receives the praise silently. 

He watches the tail end of one of Sam’s football games while eating fish and chips out of a newspaper cone while standing in a summer shower, standing together with a crowd of parents but still alone. 

He goes to visit Joan, bringing the flowers he’s since stopped taking to Win’s grave; afraid to fall after her or afraid of not moving on – he’s not sure which. “I’m going to find you, pet. I’ve a friend working on it – I’ll see you soon. Promise,” he tells her, putting the vase of sweet peas from the garden by her side. They were always her favourite. 

At the heart of it, though, he feels deeply off kilter. He’s been a husband and a father for so long he can’t remember being anything but – can’t remember it with his heart, only his head. Letting someone new in feels like cutting out a piece of himself, like burning something sacred.

Like letting Win go all over again. 

For a few nights he goes to sleep in silence, doesn’t invite Cook into his head. But he’s there all the same, even in Thursday’s own dreams. Sitting beside Thursday in the Jag instead of Lott in a deep blue suit and dark tie looking every inch a detective, although when Thursday asks his name he hands over a book with “Errol Flynn,” embossed on the cover. He gives Thursday a smile that warms his eyes, and even in his dream Thursday knows that he wants this, he needs it. He can have it if he just leans in – but Mrs Fletcher knocks on the window, and when he turns back Lott is beside him smoking and complaining of livestock on the road. 

He wakes up feeling dissatisfied. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

This July has brought warm, muggy weather in the face of consistently grey skies, spawning thunderstorms and sweat-box humidity. Thursday lies in bed at night, sweat soaking into the sheets as he grows increasingly uncomfortable in the hollow in his mattress. 

Tonight, sweat prickling at his skin, he waits until he feels his mind beginning to wander. Then he reaches out and pulls the needle onto the turntable.

Thursday wakes up as pinpricks tingle on his cheeks. He opens his eyes and stares up at thick grey skies obscured by millions of tiny snowflakes drifting down. 

He sits up to find himself on a bench on Catte Street by the Radcliffe Camera, the Bodleian off to his right. Usually it’s a busy thoroughfare, full of students, dons and tourists. Today it’s silent and still, sound muffled by a thick layer of snow. It blankets the cobbled road, the walls of the Bodleian, All Souls’ towers behind him. 

There’s nothing quite like the feel of the city in early morning when snow has fallen, nothing that replicates the calm beauty. 

Cook is standing beside him, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. While Thursday is wearing a thick woollen coat, gloves and his hat, Cook has pulled on only a thin rain coat. The tips of his ears are pink with the cold, as are his cheekbones and nose – they stand out strikingly in his frost-pale face.

He comes around the side of the bench to sit beside Thursday; the bench is the only clear surface in sight.

“Christmas?” asks Thursday. Cook, giving him an assessing look, shrugs.

“January, I think.”

“It’s beautiful. Never like this in Mile End – no peace, not much beauty either. If you were up early enough for it to still be quiet, dawn was a long ways off.”

He wants to think he’s come to some conclusion, made peace with his conflicted emotions. But really, all he knows is that he can’t go on as he has been. Can’t keep living alone in the shadow of the past, avoiding the future. 

Thursday takes off his hat, snow beginning immediately to settle in his hair; it’s spread throughout Cook’s, ice crystals gleaming in the dawn light. “Will you please tell me your name?” he asks, earnestly. “I won’t use it to find you – cross my heart. But I need something to call you. Something true.”

The lad runs both his hands through his hair, scattering snowflakes everywhere. Finally, he looks up from under his arm, meeting Thursday’s eyes. “They called me Pagan at college.” He straightens, wiping flecks of snow from his face. “I always hated it.” He licks dry lips, vacillating. Then, honestly, “You can call me Morse.”

“Morse.” He rolls the name over his tongue contemplatively. It fits him, Thursday decides, where neither Cook or James had. He smiles. “Why Pa –”

He gets no further; at that moment, Morse leans in and kisses him square on the mouth. His lips are cold, his mouth and tongue anything but. “I’m tired of questions,” he says, a little breathlessly, when he finally pulls away.

Thursday had expected a revelation, a trumpet sounding, a clear delineation of the past and the present. But there are none of those things, just a slow dizzy tip into Morse’s influence – and a warmth spreading throughout his body telling him he wants to stay there. 

Thursday nods slowly, sliding his arm over Morse’s shoulders to feel the press of his body close to his. “Can we go somewhere warmer?”

Morse smiles. “You choose.”

\------------------------------------------------------

They end up intertwined before the fire of a stately home Thursday visited years ago; some of the decorations and details are a bit fuzzy, but Morse doesn’t seem to mind. Thursday, one hand tangled in Morse’s skein of red hair and the other considerably lower, certainly doesn’t. 

It’s been a long time since he felt this good – this right. A molten warmth has settled low in his gut; his nerves are pulsing with excitement and pleasure. Each moan, each sudden intake of breath from Morse heightens his reactions, makes his hips twitch. 

Morse is lapping at his neck, sucking the sensitive skin there long enough to leave a mark. It doesn’t matter – here, they’re safe. Emboldened, Thursday rolls Morse onto his back, rocking their hips together. Morse’s teeth skim his skin and Thursday starts hastily working their trousers off. He takes their pricks together in his hand, stroking them off, the feel of Morse’s length against his almost enough on its own to finish him. Morse arches back into the sensation, mouth finally falling away as his eyes lose focus. Thursday watches his face with rapt attention as his release hits, his eyes widening and his mouth slackening while a cry catches in his throat. His bucking hips bring Thursday off, his palm stroking like mad through the cascade of pleasure. 

When they’re finished they lie half-naked in front of the fire, Thursday’s forehead pressed against Morse’s temple. He’s on his side, Morse on his back staring at the ceiling. He is, Thursday sees with a churning stomach, frowning.

“Alright?” he asks.

Morse turns to look at him, golden hair sweeping against the Persian rug. “I shouldn’t – I don’t want to hurt you, Fred.”

Thursday sits up, ice pouring through his veins. “Is there someone else?” 

Morse blinks, surprised. “No – no. But…” his eyes drop. “My future isn’t precisely secure. And you’ve already lost so much. I don’t want to compound it.”

Thursday leans in, cupping the side of Morse’s face. “I _will_ find a way to get you out.”

Morse gives him a bittersweet smile. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”


	5. Chapter 5

He starts seeing Morse nearly every night. They meet mostly in a cheap hotel with a double bed, one pulled from Morse’s memory. “I came here for the Proms in first year – this was all they had. They gave me a discount.” What had doubtless seemed like an incredible luxury to the student seems tired and shabby to Thursday, but he doesn’t complain; he has no suitable beds not haunted by past ghosts.

He finds, as the days stretch again into weeks, that his mood is brightening. He hadn’t noticed until now how dour he’d become since losing Win, how closed off from the world. Even Sam, head down in his studies, notices it. “Things going better at work?” he asks one the evening while Thursday mixes dumplings for stew. Thursday raises his eyebrows questioningly, and Sam glances down at the thick white batter. “Haven’t had those in a while.”

No – it’s been plain stew, plain cuts of meat with steamed vegetables, plain everything. Throat tightening, Thursday has the sudden realisation that he may have lost one child only to abandon the other. 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I haven’t been much use, have I?” he asks, ceasing to stir.

Sam stares at him in surprise. “You’ve been fine, Dad, just fine.”

Thursday ruffles his son’s hair – when did he get to be taller than his father? – then pulls him in for a hug. “I’m sorry all the same.”

Sam nods into his shoulder. “I know.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Crisp too has noticed, in his own way. “Good work on the Milton Farm case, Thursday,” he says, stopping by the office late one afternoon. “All ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Crown council’s pleased.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Keep it up and we’ll start looking for DCI soon. Never mind the budget,” he says, as though Thursday had started to bring it up. “I’ll find it somewhere.”

“Thank you, sir,” manages Thursday again, hoping he manages stunned rather than bitter.

He’s not the one who deserves the promotion, after all.

\----------------------------------------------------------

“Makes me wonder what I was like before, if everyone starts tossing bouquets the moment I perk up a bit,” Thursday tells Morse that night as they lie together in the hotel bed, Morse’s head resting on his chest. The lad is lying curled on his side beside Thursday, arms and legs sandwiching his lover. “Crisp even started going on about promotion, and he’s a tight-fisted bugger.”

“Do you like your work?” asks Morse, out of the blue. Thursday glances down at him; he’s staring off to the side of the room at the scuffed wallpaper. 

Thursday considers for a moment. It’s a question he’s been asked often before in all circumstances – honestly by friends and family, mockingly by suspects, angrily by grieving families. He has a different answer for each, but it’s always rote, automatic. 

“I’m not sure liking has anything to do with it,” he answers, eventually, thinking it through. “It’s a bug, coppering: you catch it, and there’s nothing that wears it down other than keeping on. Sometimes I help people: put away right bastards, find missing kids, that sort of thing. Feels good, the days you know you’re doing right. Most of the time, though, it’s just a slog and good and bad are equally grey.”

“Days where you arrest mothers for protecting their daughters?” asks Morse. There’s no venom in his words, no malice. Just fact. Thursday sighs.

“Yes, days like those. And sometimes the criminals get away because you can’t catch them, or there’s not enough evidence to prosecute, or some slick lawyer gets them off on a technicality. Days like that, you have to learn to leave work behind when you walk through your front door, or it’ll eat you alive.”

Morse rolls over, pulling himself up to Thursday’s eye level. “You don’t. You bring it here, to me. Even while you’re asleep, you’re working.”

Thursday closes his eyes. “I used not to. Got in too deep back in London and had no choice but to pull out to protect my family – to _keep_ my family. Now…” After Win and Joan, it had seemed so much less important. Another failing. Or rather, the same. “Work was an easy way to forget. The only way to forget.” 

“And now?”

Thursday opens his eyes to see Morse watching him with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. 

“I thought because I had less to protect, I needn’t try so hard. That was a mistake – and it was you who showed me so. I won’t forget again.”

Morse smiles and draws in to kiss him. “I’m glad.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

A week later a young boy disappears, the middle ground in a vicious divorce. Both sides accuse each other; police scatter trying to run down leads. 

Thursday puts in a long day’s work on it, coming home after midnight when he’s near to dropping. Sam’s already in bed, the house dark but still warm from the late summer’s lingering balmy days. 

Thursday fixes himself left-overs for some meal straddling dinner and breakfast, chasing it down with a glass of scotch. He strips for bed and falls tiredly into the soft mattress, setting his alarm and then reaching out to put on Rosalind Calloway. 

He wakes up back behind his desk, and for a minute the surrealness is dizzying. Then Morse stops the record, and the movement catches Thursday’s eye. He’s leaning against the far wall by the filing cabinet, turntable sitting on top of it. He looks around curiously, taking in the surroundings. “This is where you work,” he says, thoughtfully. He steps forward to peer down at the files scattered on Thursday’s desk. 

“Why on earth are we here? I just left,” growls Thursday, irritated. 

“You were thinking of it,” replies Morse vaguely. He reaches down and with his fingers outstretched stiffly as if to make a pentagon of the fingertips, turns the nearest file around to face him. His thumb ghosts over the date written on its cover: 25 Aug ‘63. He looks, Thursday thinks, like a man who has just uncovered a skeleton in his garden. 

“Morse?”

Morse’s head shoots up, eyes wide and startled. “Yes?”

“What is it?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” His eyes fall back down to the folder for an instant before he looks away, skirting the room with his gaze in a poor attempt to pretend he’s anything other than shaken. “Job pulling at you?” he asks, going over to examine a map of Oxford pinned to the wall. 

“You could say so. Boy’s gone missing; parents are fighting out a divorce, and custody is at issue. Either could have taken him, or arranged him taken to sabotage the other’s case. I’m not inclined to play pass the parcel with a child.” 

Morse turns, nodding. “I don’t know whether I can find anything for you – this is more subtle than murder. But sounds as though feelings are running high on both sides; that might help. Names?”

Thursday tells him – they’re written on the case file in front of him. 

“I don’t really want to spend more time than I already have here,” he mentions when he’s finished. Morse’s mouth twitches upwards towards a smile and the room blurs. He finds himself seated in Morse’s chair at his desk, Morse standing in the kitchen. 

“Tea or coffee? Anything else you’ll have to provide yourself.” He turns and fetches himself some cold water from the tap; Thursday waves off the offer. While Morse is busy with the glass he turns to glance at the books open on the desk. Milton, Paradise Lost, he sees from the words printed at the top of the pages. He looks through a few, frowning. Here and there words are missing, blurred from the page. Perhaps it was never a favourite of Morse’s.

“Something bother you in my office?” he asks as Morse takes a seat on the bed, usually reserved for Thursday. 

Morse pulls a finger along the line of his jaw, eyes narrowed with the beginnings of concern. “No,” he says, unconvincingly, and takes a drink of water. “They have you working a lot of cases.”

Thursday shrugs. “Not many DIs to go around.”

“Tell me,” Morse starts suddenly, as though deciding to go on the offensive, “how long it’s been since Joan fell.”

Thursday blinks, surprised by the non sequitur. He frowns, but answers. “Two years. Joan had just turned eighteen; lost her priority status for the vaccine three weeks before,” he says, bitterly.

“Two years isn’t too long; it’s likely she’s still alright,” Morse says, rubbing at the rim of the glass. His eyes drop to it, shoulders falling.

“It’s a damn long time, Morse. They say after three, it’s more than even odds that…” he shrugs to hide the tightness in his voice; in any case, Morse knows the rest. More than likely you won’t be coming back. Not as yourself, leastwise. After four, might as well give up. He looks to Morse, warily. “How long –” he begins, but gets no further.

Morse looks up, eyes flashing. “Do you really want to know?” he demands, tone suddenly hard. “How much time I have left? How much longer we have?” He stands abruptly, makes to pace off towards the door. Thursday catches his wrist as he goes by, slowing him up. 

“I want to know what’s bothering you,” he says, gently but with a hint of steel behind the words. Morse looks town, jaw clenched, then softens a little.

“I’m living on borrowed time,” he says, eventually. “Have been for a while.” He shakes his head when Thursday opens his mouth. “Don’t ask anymore. Let’s just… pretend everything is normal.”

“Never been one for pretending,” says Thursday, pulling Morse down to sit on his lap. Morse smiles gently.

“Then you’re in the wrong place.” He leans in and kisses Thursday, until there’s no choice but to give in and let it go. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday and the rest of CID spend two frustrating days chasing public tips and scanty evidence, looking for the missing boy. They find an abandoned campsite that might have been used by the kidnappers, but there’s nothing definitive to connect it with the kidnapping and there’s no evidence that hints to where whoever was there might have gone. As the clock ticks and the potential to get the boy back unharmed begins to dwindle, Thursday returns to the edge of the Dreamscape to see what progress Morse has made.

\----------------------------------------------------------

He’s sitting on the side of a dock by the river Cherwell, punts moored nearby and reeds swaying gently in the breeze. His shoes and socks are off, feet hanging over the side in a very un-Oxford look. When Thursday wakes up, Morse takes off the opera and switches it out for a classical record – something very busy with a full orchestra. 

“I haven’t seen a lot of sunshine lately,” he explains to Thursday, head canted skyward as Thursday comes to sit down beside him. 

“Can’t have that,” says Thursday, companionably. “What’s that?” he asks, nodding at the record. Morse looks momentarily hurt at his lack of recognition. 

“Holst, The Planets. Jupiter,” he says, as though announcing the national anthem. The music behind him swells, turning from sprightly to regal in apparent echo of his tone. He shakes his head, but then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a set of photographs. “Here.”

Thursday takes them and flips through them. In some are shown a run-down tenement house from the inside and outside, in others a vehicle production line, and finally a scruffy man looking at himself in the mirror. He’s young, wearing a turtle-neck and a severe frown. “I think that may be who you’re looking for. His anxiety is off the chart, and he’s having nightmares about breaking into somewhere. It’s not clear enough to say definitively; nothing showing the boy or his house.”

Thursday nods. “I’ll look into it. I think I’ve seen these houses before.” They’re out on the edge of Cowley, where town and gown merge with mixed housing for students and higher-end housing for factory workers. 

Behind Morse, the record cuts into a heartbeat of silence; Morse seems not to notice. “Good. I couldn’t find anything else.”

“That’s alright, this is plenty to be going on with.”

Morse shrugs. “If it’s him.” He sighs. The music blinks out again, falling silent for an instant before picking up. Morse doesn’t turn, doesn’t even frown. 

“Right,” says Thursday slowly, glancing back down at the photos. He has to memorize them after all. “How are you?” He watches Morse out of the corner of his eye – the lad turns to look out over the river, resting his hands on his knees.

“Fine.” He squints into the sunlight, watching a pair of swans swimming in the distance. The record finishes one movement and moves into a next – smoothly for nearly half a minute, before cutting out again. Morse keeps watching the swans. 

Thursday frowns but goes back to the photos.

\-------------------------------------------------------

The next morning rather than going into the nick, he has Lott drive him down towards Cowley taking the back roads, dodging and weaving through the narrow lanes looking for a set of houses he remembers having once noticed. 

It takes them about 20 minutes to find it, Lott grousing beside him. The brick tenements, paint on the windows flecking and pavement settled unevenly outside. Outside the second from the end, three jars of milk are sitting on the stoop. He gets out of the car to knock.

The woman downstairs confirms that they rent the upstairs to a car mechanic employed on the assembly line, but that he’s not been home for a couple of days. “I was going to take his milk in for him, but he don’t thank you for interfering. Very suspicious, is Mr Henley.” 

She takes them up to the landing but no further: “He’s the only one as has a key.”

There’s a window on the landing looking out at the streets beyond. Thursday turns to it as they start down again, and catches his breath. The view is familiar – skin-crawlingly so. He hurries down and out onto the street. The next set of houses along but one is the same height and with street-facing windows. Even from the exterior, Thursday can see clearly enough what they are: student bed-sits. 

Morse’s bed-sit.

\------------------------------------------------------

“John Henley,” he tells Morse that night, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, still in their clothes. “We tied him to the father – cousin. Works down in Cowley, but has an impressive record for a man his age. Father agreed to pull the plug on the whole thing when we confronted him. Lott thinks I’m clairvoyant.” 

Morse smiles. “Is that a round-about way of complimenting me?”

“If you like.” He kisses Morse, who accepts it but doesn’t reciprocate. “What is it?”

Morse shakes his head, smile fading. “I still can’t find her. Joan. I keep trying, but all there is out there are nightmares – so much hurt, and madness.” He shivers, hunching down. Thursday pulls him close, in the process his eyes catching the painting above the bed. Before it had been a watercolour of a seaside village. Now it’s just an abstract blue-green blur. “Why can’t I find her?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Maybe you’re looking too hard, burning yourself out. Take a rest –”

“I can’t. How could I? She’s out there alone, she’s too young to be left alone,” he says, brittle and frustrated.

“Morse, I know. _I know._ But tying yourself in knots won’t help.” He’s too close to this. Too close to both of them, and protecting one at the expense of the other is like a knife to the gut: slow agony. 

Morse runs his hands through his hair, the motion short, sharp and violent. “I’m failing her.”

Thursday swallows. “Right now, you’re the only one doing anything for her.”

Morse stands; around them the room is fading, shifting. The walls and floor melt gently into grass and trees, a short crooked iron fence in the distance. Around them, old tombstones rise and fall with the uneven ground, most of the names scored off by time or Morse’s uncertain memory. 

One stands out; the one directly behind Morse. CONSTANCE MORSE, APRIL 22, 21 – MAY 17, 50.

“Your mother?” Thursday asks, quietly. 

Morse spins around, as if only noticing now where they are. “What – I –”

The landscape starts to shift again, dizzyingly fast this time, back towards the bland wallpaper and cracked plaster ceiling of the hotel. Thursday grabs his shoulders, digging his fingers in under the bone. “No; wait.”

Morse looks up, a wall of colour swirling behind him, eyes uncertain. “Wait,” Thursday says, more gently, softening his grip. 

Slowly, the landscape shifts back into that of the graveyard, air taking on a cool pine smell. “Why did you come here?”

He had thought for a moment Morse might have fallen after his mother’s death – if in fact Constance is his mother – but 13 years is far too long to be in the Dreamscape. 

Morse steps back, crossing an arm over his chest. He looks around slowly, at the pale blue sky and washed-out moss growing thick in the grass. “Because I feel safe here. This is where my family is.”

Thursday looks back to the gravestone, remembered in perfect detail. “Morse, if you’ve no family you need a representative to apply for the vaccine on your behalf.”

Morse’s eyes harden. “I have relatives,” he says; Thursday notes the difference in wording. 

“Then why…”

But Morse will say no more, a knot of ornery obstinacy, and Thursday’s attempts only wind him up further until he gives up and takes them to a pub to finish the night – they’re neither of them in the mood for anything else. 

In the morning, Thursday calls through to Somerset House. Births, Deaths, Marriages and Fallen.

He promised, after all, not to track Morse by his name. Not his mother’s.


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday spends a long time on the phone with Somerset House. He has several things to find: Constance Morse’s death certificate, and from it Morse’s birth certificate. And then, from that, the record of his infection and care.

When he gets to the latter, he has to ask the girl to repeat herself, hand suddenly tightening on the pencil. He nearly drives the tip through his pad of paper, before raising it and writing in the notes in a stiff hand. It’s very legible, but he hardly needs it. He’s not likely to forget.

Not the date, at least. April 1958. Five years ago.

\----------------------------------------------------------

The drive to Lincolnshire is a long one, made in a sudden summer storm that sends sheets of rain sluicing against the windscreen. Thursday is alone, only his notebook and raincoat for company. That’s just fine; he couldn’t stand anything else. His anger alone seems to fill the entirety of the car, so strong it is like a second force is present, all teeth and knives. 

The Morse house isn’t hard to find; Cyril Morse has been living there for the past 45 years. An address was easily obtained, and even that was probably unnecessary; most of the village establishments could doubtless provide directions. There’s no car parked in the front, but the hedges are very smoothly trimmed, the garden thickly planted and immaculately kept, and the roof and exterior paint new. 

Thursday knocks on the door, standing patiently out of the rain on the porch until it’s answered by a middle-aged woman with a face age has given a permanent frown. Wedding ring, he notes, and plain house clothes. She is clearly at home here. “Yes?”

“I would like to see Cyril Morse, please,” he says, pleasantly. 

“And you are?”

“Fred Thursday. Detective Inspector.”

She raises her eyebrows but steps back, eyes suspicious. She shows him into the front room and then steps off into the house, calling for Morse’s father. 

It’s a well-furnished room, a shining pair of matching maple tables and sofa table, a large and comfortable-looking chesterfield and armchairs, a grandfather clock. The soft dove-grey walls and bright white window sashes and doorframes are crisp – new paint here, too.

It’s a minute before the man arrives, stairs out in the halls creaking as he descends. As he walks in, Thursday stares dumbstruck for a moment. His image is that of Morse – the Morse Thursday knew in the early days of their acquaintance. White hair, filled-out face, stooped shoulders, bright blue eyes. It shouldn’t be a surprise; he had predicted it months ago. But to suddenly come face-to-face with Morse, even if it’s not his Morse, in the real world is shocking all the same.

He swallows his surprise and puts out his hand. “Mr Morse? Fred Thursday.” 

Morse doesn’t take it. “And what do the police want with me?” he asks, a hint of mockery in his tone. He doesn’t sit, clearly not anticipating a long interview.

Thursday stares him straight in the eye, watching him hard. “It’s about your son, sir.”

Surprise flashes through the man’s face and then, Thursday is almost surprised to see, pain. “He’s not here. Hasn’t been in years.”

“I’m aware, sir. I know where he is.”

Morse crosses his arms, scowling now. “Then you ought to know he’s not done anything to bother you and yourn.” 

“It’s not about what he’s done; it’s about what he hasn’t,” replies Thursday, a thick layer of ice laid down over his simmering rage. “I called Somerset House this morning to enquire about the particulars of his illness. They’re under the impression that he was lifted three years ago.”

Cyril Morse stares at him, face tightening with anger. “They are, are they? More likely as this just some trick to pin something on the lad – that’s the sort of thing you bastards get up to, I know. Not much I don’t know about your kind,” he spits, face reddening. 

Thursday straightens but doesn’t stand. “You can call them yourself. They’ll tell you the same.”

Morse is nearly sputtering, his rage twisting his face into a tight scowl. “Get out.”

Thursday remains unmoved, some heat coming into his gaze now. “Not ‘til I find what I came for. Your son won a dose of the vaccine in the lottery two years back, and someone got it. Someone other than him. That’s a count of fraud, but to my mind it should be murder.” He does stand now, pulling out his notebook. “I also looked into the history of his care. He was in the local Avalon here until two years ago; around then he was transferred down south to Oxford. Why was that?”

Morse is silent, face growing darker and darker, teeth beginning to show through his snarl.

“I see you’ve had some recent work done on the house – new roof, new paint, professional gardener, good furniture. What did all that cost, then?”

“You are _accusing_ me of –”

Thursday turns on him, ice cracking and revealing the fire below. “I am _asking_ you: Did you sell Endeavour’s life to the highest bidder?” He stands, hand gripping the notebook in clenched fingers, his breaths coming quickly. 

“ _No_ ,” replies his father, forcefully, immediately. “I never – we enter the lottery every year for him, even though he’s probably lost and the postage is a waste of money. So take your bloody accusations and get out of my house.”

“We?” asks Thursday sharply, ignoring the order.

“My wife sends in the papers; I can’t make heads or tails of all those government forms.”

Thursday raises his eyebrow; Morse misinterprets it. “That’s right; they’re all on file it somewhere. So you and your damn notebook can bugger off.”

Thursday suckes on his teeth as he steps out into the hall; behind him, he can hear Morse Sr pouring himself a glass of something. 

In the hall he’s met by Mrs Morse – the second, presumably; he’s seen the gravestone of the first. “Seen enough?” she asks, archly. He looks back, unimpressed, and she crosses her arms over her pink knit jumper.

“What happened?” he asks, quietly. “Why did you have him moved? Did he start showing up in your dreams? Find out what you’d done, and guilt you for it? Or did he just sit and watch – he’s good that way. Must be hard to have a dead man’s eyes on you – a man you’ve sold to death for some licks of paint and a few pieces of furniture.”

She flushes, stiffening. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything to the boy.”

“No. You’ve done nothing _for_ him.”

For a minute they stare at each other, eyes crackling. She backs down first, looking away. “He wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth the price they offered – wasn’t even worth the effort of the paperwork. He failed out of his fancy school, fell into the Dreamscape, all over some girl who broke his heart – he’s never been anything but trouble. And never worth it,” she hisses, venomously. 

Thursday feels his rage rising like acid, burning into the back of his throat. “Well, apparently he’s worth gaol time,” he says, turns, and walks out the door.

It’s the best rejoinder he has in the face of callous hatred – hatred of a step-mother for a child who needed her help, who depended on it. Who might very well have lost himself without it.

Thursday gets back into the car, hands tight on the wheel, and breaks speed limits all the way back to Oxford.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

“Sir, I need to talk to you.”

Crisp looks up from his paperwork, giving Thursday a considering glance, then nods. Thursday steps in, closing the door behind him.

“I have a confession to make. The Carlyle murders, the Dutton murder, the farm accident, the missing boy. I didn’t solve them. Not alone.”

Crisp raises his eyebrows. “Informant?” he asks, sharply.

Thursday takes a deep breath. “Of a sort. He’s a Dreamer, sir. He’s been finding the suspects by their dreams and feeding me the necessary details. With them, working backwards has been easy.”

Crisp locks his fingers together, expression growing flat. “You’ve been divulging case information to a Dreamer?”

“Who would he tell, sir? Of course trustworthiness is a concern – but he’s been right every time. Proven by the evidence we found at his suggestion.”

“And what does he want, this informant of yours? Not money, plainly.”

“He doesn’t want anything, sir. But I do. I want to get him out. He’s starting to crack up, and we need to get him out of there before he loses himself.” Thursday speaks firmly, leaving no speck of doubt in his voice.

“That’s up to the family, Thursday. You could look at putting in a supporting recommendation to their annual application…”

“He’s not in the records, sir. Not anymore. He won a dose two years ago; his step-mother sold it for the money. I’m onto Lincolnshire about charging her, but without any evidence of the sale or the buyer, like as not it won’t go anywhere.”

Crisp sighs, dropping his head. “Never did anything halfway, did you Thursday? Only you would turn up an informant with an ironclad reason for County support.” 

“We need to put in a special request on his behalf, sir. Can we do it?”

Crisp rocks his hands back and forth for a moment. “If I say no?” he asks, carefully.

Thursday meets his eyes, unwavering. “Then you’ll have to find a new head for Major Crimes.”

Crisp gives a sparse smile, shaking his head. “Like I said. No half measures with you.” He raises his hands, turning the palms upwards: silent surrender. “Write up the letter.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

With the Chief Constable behind the letter and the threat of administrative complicity in the former miscarriage of administration, it takes only two weeks to secure a dose of the vaccine. 

Thursday is torn between returning to keep an eye on Morse while trying to lie to him, and not returning. The idea of returning and telling the truth – revealing to Morse that he knows his family abandoned him to death, rated him as worthless in the face of his failure at Oxford, and that he discovered it, is unthinkable. Not while he’s still within reach of the Terrors. 

In the end, he goes back only once: the night before, with the knowledge that the vaccine is already marked and waiting for Morse. That he himself could walk into Avalon right now and see him in person, two floors up from Joan. But that feels like a betrayal, something he can’t do without permission, or at least acknowledgement. 

It takes him hours to fall asleep, a seemingly endless stretch of lying with his eyes closed, waiting for his thoughts to begin to drift. Finally, when the birds are beginning to sing outside, he feels sleep stealing over him and switches on Rosalind Calloway one last time.

Morse is sitting in the ragged remains of his flat. There are dark, empty patches on the walls, furniture and household items missing from the room. Outside there’s only a long eerie blackness, no complex muddle of Oxford roofs. The record isn’t playing; there are only a few left sitting in the bottom shelf which had once been full with them. 

He looks over at Thursday from his chair without rising; he is hollow-cheeked, eyes fever bright. “Fred. I missed you,” he says, throat raw. Thursday stands and moves over to him only to kneel down before him, taking Morse’s face in his hands. His heart is twisting so tightly his throat stings with it, guilt searing him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing Morse once, twice. “I’m sorry. You’ll be alright.”

Morse puts his hand over Thursday’s, frowning. “What is it?” he asks, confused. 

“I know, Morse. I know everything – your step-mother, your failed degree, all of it. I’m going to get you out, now.”

Morse’s face freezes, going completely blank. And then, outside, the wind starts to pick up. Starts to hammer against the glass of the window, beating against it as a gale whips up in the empty blackness. The lights start to flicker, and between the snatches of shadow he sees Morse staring at him with a twisted, mad look. 

He shakes him, hard, fear suddenly pouring in in an icy torrent. “Morse! Morse – snap out of it. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters. It’ll all be alright, you’ll be fine.” 

Morse is breathing hard, a sheen of sweat covering his face. He starts to shake his head, whether in denial or disbelief Thursday can’t tell, doesn’t give him time to settle into. He carries on, starting to babble in his desperation. “ _Yes_ , yes it will be. Listen to me, _listen_ – you’ll get out of here, and everything will be alright. I’ll make it alright.”

He has to. He’s let down too many people, been powerless to do anything for those he loved too many times. Not this time. 

Morse is starting to slip into something closer to fear, and Thursday relaxes just slightly. Anything is preferable to the madness that had lit his eyes. “It won’t,” he whispers. “You’re leaving her alone. All alone. Don’t – you can’t. _Don’t_.” he repeats pleadingly, eyes full of pain. In his tone, though, all Thursday hears is _don’t leave_ me _alone._

Don’t do the same thing my parents did to me. 

“It’ll be alright,” mutters Thursday again, mechanically, because there’s nothing else to say. No way to make this better, make this right. He embraces Morse, draws him into a tight hug and holds on, still murmuring reassurances in his lover’s ear. Morse is shivering but the wind outside is dying down, the lights stabilizing. 

“You can save her,” whispers Morse. “Do it. Take her out of here, and keep her safe.”

“Don’t say that,” says Thursday thickly, pulling away. Morse is watching him with reddening eyes, looking heartbroken.

“You’re her father – it’s your _job_ to protect her.”

“The vaccine is for you, Morse. Obtained specially. I can’t –”

“It’s yours. I give you permission, you can –”

“ _Shut up_ ,” snaps Thursday; Morse’s mouth clicks shut and he stares at Thursday in hurt shock. “Stop it. Just – stop. Don’t make this harder. Please.” His voice cuts out and he stands, feeling abruptly that if he stays sitting still any longer he’ll tear apart. He walks across the tiny flat and clenches his hands on the edge of the sink, tightens his grip until his fingers start to ache from the pressure. 

Slowly, he feels a gently warmth at his back. Morse, resting his head against Thursday’s shoulder. “It won’t be the same, out there,” he says in a soft, broken voice.

Thursday turns and presses their foreheads together, cupping Morse’s cheek with one hand. “It will be what we make it, just like in here.”

Behind Morse, the wall starts to crack up, lines running up to the ceiling which follows. Thursday grabs Morse’s shoulder, pressing his fingers in hard. “Wait for me. Just a little longer. Right?”

Morse gives a bittersweet smile, and before he can answer the world fades away.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Thursday calls for a ride in his pyjamas, feet cold on the cool wood of the hallway floor. He’s dressed, shaved and ready in ten minutes, just as the car is pulling up outside his door. Lott won’t find him here when he comes looking later, but he’ll have to lump it. 

He gives the constable orders to take him to Avalon, and then spends the interminable journey forcibly restraining himself from bawling the young man out for his lackadaisical driving style. He goes flying out of the car as soon as they arrive, leaving the bemused young man to shut the door behind him; he’s already halfway along the remaining segment of gravel before drive meets stone stairs. 

Inside, as always, there’s a funereal hush. The large entranceway and long hallways are silent, devoid of activity, of life. The young woman sitting at the desk looks up at him with a lipid movement devoid of curiosity. Thursday doesn’t pause to catch his breath from the quick ascent of the stairs outside, doesn’t take off his hat; he strides straight over and puts his hands on the desk. “Morse. Endeavour. Is the doctor here yet?”

She blinks up at him, then looks slowly down at the book in front of her, leafs through it unhurriedly. “Morse. Moved yesterday to the Recovery Ward. Vaccine arrived. Doctor Hillcrest will be here at 8.” 

Thursday doesn’t have to look at his watch; it’s hardly half-past seven now. “I’ll wait there. Where is it?”

She looks down again. “Bed 24. Down the hall to the left, the first door.” She waves a limp hand; Thursday is already going.

He takes off his hat as he enters the ward, unconsciously smoothing down his hair. Here there is the first sign of life, of hope he’s ever seen in this place. Some of the patients in the long double line of beds are sitting up, eyes open. Reading, being fed, looking out the tall windows. Each is in a tiny artificial room created by cream-coloured drapes hung from tracks in the ceiling, and unlike the rest of the wards here there are chairs and tables for visitors. Many are covered with flowers, candies, cards, books and papers. It occurs to him that he brought nothing. 

Most of the recently lifted Dreamers have a half-starved appearance, pale cheeks and sunken eyes, some with thin hair or jaundiced skin. The nutrition Avalon provides its sleepers keeps them alive, not healthy. But with the phenomenal cost of the vaccine, most prefer that funds be shunted into waking more sleepers and providing therapy to those few than keeping up the health of millions of unconscious patients. 

24 is the last bed in the ward, he can see counting the number cards that hang at the foot of each bed. His mind flits briefly to 260, to the bed upstairs where Joan sleeps on, unaware of what at this moment feels very much like betrayal. But he forces his mind away and keeps walking down the empty corridor between the two rows of beds, leather soles clicking on the linoleum. Some of the former Dreamers are watching him; a few smile, most look nervously away. 

He takes a deep breath before rounding the drape that separates 24 from the rest of the room. Closes his eyes, and imagines what he’ll see. 

He’s still shocked. Shocked at how small Morse looks, how frail and bird-boned lying there under the white sheets. What’s more shocking still is his hair. It’s the only colour to him, a bright cascade of red-gold. Someone has given him a shave, presumably when the feeding tube was removed, but his hair has simply been drawn back in a tie to his left side. It falls down past his shoulder in soft waves, like a Napoleonic queue. Five years of growth.

Five years. Thursday closes his eyes, nails digging into the palms of his hand. Five bloody years, and three of them alone without hope. 

He takes a seat, pulling Morse’s frail hand into his, and bows his head to wait. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The doctor arrives with a pair of nurses and a little set of cupboard on wheels promptly at 8am. Thursday stands, introducing himself and shaking the doctor’s hand.

“Hillcrest,” replies the doctor. “I understand you secured the vaccine for this patient, inspector.”

Thursday nods.

“He’s one of our oldest guests – an angel, some of the aides here call them.” At Thursday’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “Top floor.”

“Nearest Heaven?”

He gives a grim little shrug. “I need to be clear – he has been trapped for five years. The chances of his having retained his mind are very slim. Had this not come as a personal award from the highest offices, I would have pushed back very strongly against his being given it over more viable candidates.”

Thursday’s jaw tenses, but he nods stiffly. “I understand. But he will be alright. It’s why he’s been recommended.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, but reaches out for the syringe resting in a shallow metal tray on the top of the shelf. “Very well. Stand away, please, lifting can be dangerous.”

Thursday moves back to stand at the foot of the bed, Hillcrest and one nurse on one side and the second on the other side. The doctor pulls Morse’s arm free from the covers and slips the needle under his skin; Thursday’s heart gives a painful jolt. 

For nearly a minute there’s nothing. No increase of breath, no fluttering eyelids, nothing. Then, softly, Morse coughs. Thursday straightens, sweat pricking at the back of his collar, heart thrumming in his chest. Morse coughs again, then his eyes snap open and the doctor is pulling him onto his side so he can retch. 

There’s a long process with emetic pans and hot cloths and extra blankets, a second round of injections and briefly some oxygen. Then, slowly, things begin to calm. Morse is laid gently on his back, given an extra pillow and tucked in carefully under the blankets. One of the nurses leaves with the cart while the second takes a seat in a chair on the far side of Morse’s bed. Hillcrest stops beside Thursday. “He’ll sleep for a while; Nurse Fathers will stay with him. I’ll be back to see him this afternoon. It will take some weeks for him to regain enough muscle tone to be released, unless there is a private institution you would prefer to transfer him to?”

Thursday shakes his head mutely. Hillcrest nods. “Once he’s well enough to be released he will still require extra assistance for a few weeks with more strenuous tasks. He will either need someone to look in on him daily, or to stay somewhere that can provide that. We have some lodgings we can recommend if there is nothing else which suits.”

“Thank you,” says Thursday, politely. Hillcrest shakes his hand again and walks off, greeting a few of the patients as he moves away down the hall.

Thursday moves slowly back and takes a seat beside Morse. Sleeping again – only this time, alone in his own head. He wonders what it must feel like.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

As much as he would like to stay by Morse’s side all day waiting for him to wake, it isn’t feasible with his work. He leaves a note saying he was there and will return later, hopes Morse can understand it – prays he can. 

He realises after a few hours that trying to work today was a mistake – his mind runs itself in tiny circles, fear and anxiety gnawing relentlessly at him. What if they weren’t soon enough – what if Morse couldn’t wait for them, for him?

He leaves early and returns to the news that Morse woke earlier and seemed to take in his surroundings and what he was told, but didn’t speak. He takes his place at Morse’s side, sitting silently for hours holding his hand until it’s time to leave. He doesn’t wake. 

Thursday goes home, makes a late dinner, and over the course of it explains to Sam about Morse. Not their relationship, of course – he can’t really imagine ever sharing that with his son, but certainly can’t now when everything is so uncertain. But about his bravery and courage, and their friendship. Sam deserves to know where his father goes, and that sometime soon they may have a guest in the house. They _will_ , Thursday prays. 

It’s not until his visit the following morning, a day after Morse was lifted, that Morse finally wakes. 

Thursday is sitting alone staring out the window at the rain falling on a willow tree – there’s a little stream that runs across the grounds and turns the grass soggy – when he hears a small cough. He looks down to see bright blue eyes staring up at him, surprised. “Fred,” he whispers, or something close enough. 

Thursday’s heart leaps and he feels his face light up, his smile breaking so wide that Morse’s lips twitch in response. He takes Morse’s hand in both of his, clasping it tightly so that his cool fingers grow warm. Then, after a quick back – no one in sight, man across from them asleep – he leans down and kisses Morse carefully. 

It’s perfect, a perfect moment. Not so much the kiss itself – light, chaste – as what it represents. Victory in the face of defeat, a second chance at love and happiness. 

Morse’s fingers twitch over his hand, the tips curling gently closer to him, and his own smile softens but deepens. This is true, is real. Against all odds, Morse is here with him. 

He stays at Morse’s bedside, talking softly of nothing particular and holding Morse’s hand tight so that he can feel the realness of it, until the younger man falls asleep again. His eyes drift shut and the shiver of tension in his hand slips away as he sighs softly and his breathing evens out. Thursday puts his hand down carefully, smoothing the heavy covers over him and tucking them down fastidiously. 

He is, he realises suddenly, happy. Truly and utterly. 

But still, as he walks out, he feels a deep shard of ice in his heart. Joan is still upstairs, and even now in this moment of joy and relief, he can’t forget it.


	7. Epilogue

Thursday has been aware of rehabilitation as a concept for years. But until now, he’s never known a Dreamer who had been lifted – not personally.

It turns out that the process is long and gruelling, with rapid progress at first which then slows to what seems almost a crawl. Simple things like rolling over or raising his head are beyond Morse in the beginning but are mastered relatively quickly. But fine motor skills are a long way off, as are concepts like walking or dressing. 

Thursday comes twice a day: first thing in the morning, and then again for a few hours in the evening. He fills in the crossword for Morse, brings him light books with thick pages that are easily propped up and flipped through, and the librettos from some of the records he buys at Morse’s request – the turntable and records themselves are out of the question on a ward of 24. 

They talk, mostly about the things they did before when Thursday had no case in the offing. Poetry and literature (Morse), old police cases from London and foreign parts (Thursday), history, politics, the state of the world (both). Morse is much quieter than he had been in the Dreamscape, shyer and more withdrawn. Even the presence of one care aide makes him nervous, two shut him up entirely and leave him a wide-eyed shivering mess. They seem to be aware of this, though – Thursday rarely sees two together, and the ones who do come by are friendly but most of all quick and efficient. And this, too, improves as the weeks slide by and Morse learns to pull himself up in bed and hold a cup and pull on a cardigan. 

Once he can sit up for an extended period, a barber comes in and his hair is shorn off to leave behind the wavy, ruffled mess of red and gold Thursday remembers from the Dreamscape. It’s another shock after the long queue, but a heart-warming one. A step closer to normality.

But all the while, as Thursday comes in and out, he is constantly, inexorably aware that just up the stairs Joan is waiting for him. That she has taken second place to Morse, and it may cost her her life. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

The one person other than Thursday Morse seems able to stand from fairly early on is Dr Hillcrest. He comes by every morning to check the patients, and performs tests twice a week to monitor recovery progress. Thursday rarely sees him himself – they both work in the day, and their schedules rarely overlap – but Morse speaks about him. 

About the work going on in the world to combat Oneiros, about new drug development and trials. 

“The intent,” Morse says, running a hand through his newly-shortened locks – he’s still not used to them – “is to make something as effective as the current vaccine, but much cheaper. Then there wouldn’t be shortages, not to the extent that currently exist, and we could lift people immediately or at the most only months after falling.”

“I know there have been outfits working along that line for years now,” acknowledges Thursday, glancing at the cover of a book called _Oneiros Reimaged_ leant to Morse by Hillcrest and sitting on the bedside table; it has a rough-edged, faded look as though it were regularly leant out. “The Germans are onto it, and the Americans, I think.”

“And us,” says Morse, immediately. “There’s a lot of work going in here – at Oxford. They may be ready to trial soon.”

Thursday has heard this all before; he stopped getting his hopes up long ago. A new miracle cure has been just around the corner for years, and yet never seems to make it past the starting gate – cost, adverse reactions and side effects are the usual culprits. He makes a vague noise of assent; Morse looks peevish. “It matters,” he says, sniffing.

“Of course it matters. But until something comes out that’s proven to work, I try not to get invested in it,” says Thursday, affably. 

“Something needs to be done,” insists Morse. “Soon. Or – or…” he shakes his head, suddenly biting his lip. “It’s not good enough,” he whispers, indistinctly. 

Thursday puts his arms around him, starts pulling him into an embrace. But Morse turns around wildly, eyes wide and pained, and Thursday pulls back. “Morse?”

“I can’t,” he says miserably. “I – I can’t. Not while she’s still there.” He’s drawn back as far into his pillow as he can, shoulder blades up against the cheap wooden head of the bed. His hands have risen to catch on the opposite elbow, fingers twisting in the fabric of his sleeves. 

“If I,” begins Thursday, but Morse cuts him off.

“It’s nothing you’ve done, nothing you _would_ do. But I never found her, and you woke me instead of her. We’re both chained to this, and until we find a way out – until we find _her_ a way out… I just can’t.” He shakes his head, eyes on his lap.

Thursday lays a hand on his shoulder, gentle and unassuming. “I know,” he says softly, and Morse gives him a sad but thankful look. “We’ll get her out.”

“Yes. We will.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday is, after this, not surprised when Morse turns down his offer of the spare room. A part of him is disappointed all the same, but it’s probably for the best. Morse is right: something has changed between them, and taking up again now before it’s resolved would be a mistake. Might break them. 

He is therefore expecting Morse, upon his release, to take up the offer of one of the local lodgings recommended by Dr Hillcrest.

What he is not expecting is for Morse to return to Oxford. Jesus College.

“I’ve been asked to assist with the development of their new vaccine,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed in a new suit and shiny shoes. He’s still too thin, cheekbones very strong and eyes shadowed by the line of his brow. His penmanship isn’t up to much yet, and he’s missed a bit shaving – although he complains bitterly about the safety razor they make him use. “I’m not sure what use I could be, but I suppose I’ve more experience than most.”

“You’re sharp as a knife and you pick things up quick. I’m sure you’ll be more use to them than half their junior men. If you’re sure this is what you want,” Thursday adds, with a slight question. 

Morse smiles at him. “It is. I told you: I can’t do nothing.” He stands, Thursday quashing the urge to help him. “They’ve provided me with a room in college; I can do most of what they need from there for the first while. Until I’m myself again.” He pauses.

“What?”

Morse shakes his head ruefully. “For a long time, I never thought I would say that. Never thought I’d really get out.”

“And now?”

Morse is silent for a minute, considering. Finally, he turns to glance up at the ceiling – at the storeys of Dreamers trapped above. “Now it’s my turn to help the others.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Thursday hasn’t thought about what kind of relationship they would have once Morse left Avalon. What sort of relationship the two of them could maintain, he at work and with a son to raise and Morse living in college. 

It turns out that they simply don’t maintain one. Oh, they call occasionally, or write, but neither of them are comfortable talking on the phone or writing about the feelings they share, and in any case Joan is still there between them. 

Somehow without his really realising it, days stretch to weeks, and then to months without his seeing Morse. 

As the leaves fall outside and the first frosts harden the ground, he starts to wonder how much he really could have meant to Morse. Whether he wasn’t just the only option, an anchor to seize hold of in disastrous seas. Why, with the whole world ahead of him, Morse would possibly come back to Thursday. 

In the old double bed Thursday sleeps alone. He dreams alone too. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday is woken early in the morning by the doorbell. It’s still dark outside, the air of his bedroom cold with the December chill. He puts on a housecoat and slippers and trudges downstairs; Sam probably hasn’t even woken up.

In the front hall he turns on the light, illuminating the silhouette of a man standing outside the door, then opens it.

For a minute, he just stares.

Endeavour Morse is standing on his front doorstep, a big woollen scarf around his neck and his cheeks pink with the cold. In his gloved hands he’s holding something. It is, Thursday realises, his own morning paper.

“Hello,” he says, smiling.

“Hello,” replies Thursday, nearly dumb-struck. He stands back out of force of habit to let Morse in, closing the door on the cold air outside. “How’d you get here?”

“I walked.”

“You walked,” repeats Thursday, feeling like an idiot. Morse only smiles a little wider at the look on his face.

“Yes. I’m fine now – complete and whole. Well, almost whole.” He gives Thursday a look that makes the inspector flush. But before he can say anything to that, Morse is handing him the paper. “Look,” is all he says.

Thursday unfolds the _Mail_. On the front page is a picture of several white-coated scientists standing in a lab. The headline reads _OXFORD LAUNCHES NEW VACCINE._ The secondary headline provides the additional detail: _Safe, Effective Vaccine to Onerois Virus Developed at ¼ Cost._

Thursday reads it twice, stunned. As he looks up to remark on it, he sees Morse has produced another piece of paper, this one out of his pocket. It’s a page-long list. Names. One a few lines from the top is underlined, and Thursday’s eyes scroll to it automatically. Joan Thursday. 

“She’ll get it today,” he says, a little shyly. “You can go there now, if you want.”

“But – I – _how_?” sputters Thursday, looking from the paper to Morse and back again.

“I told you, I’ve been helping with the development. Largely what the Dreamscape is, how it works. How we interact with it. I don’t really see myself how it mattered, but apparently it did. And the vaccine works; I’ve seen it. I made Joan the condition of my employment with them. Well, that and lodgings,” he adds, pedantically. 

Lost in a sea of incomprehension, Thursday latches onto this one island of fact. “Aren’t they paying you? This is worth millions to them – more than that, probably.”

Morse shrugs good-naturedly. “As a matter of fact, yes, they insisted on it. But I’ve got what I wanted. What we wanted,” he adds, quietly. 

Thursday opens his mouth, then shuts it again, shaking his head silently. Slowly, newspaper crumpling in his hand, he leans forward and draws Morse into a strong embrace. Buries his face against the other man’s neck so that he’s suffused with the scent of him – soap, beeswax, parchment paper. “ _Thank you_ ,” he whispers, lips brushing Morse’s soft skin. Morse shivers, one hand cradling the nape of Thursday’s neck, the other wrapped around his back just above the housecoat’s tie. 

Slow as treacle, Thursday raises his head and pushes Morse backwards, pins him against the door and presses their mouths together. His hand runs up under Morse’s layers of clothing, feeling the lean muscle there, the tautness of his side and stomach. His fingers run lower, slipping wistfully under Morse’s belt buckle. But Sam is upstairs, and Joan is waiting. 

“Later?” he asks, huskily as he pulls back. Morse gives him a drunk look – something he’s never seen on the teetotaller – and nods back. 

“Promise.”

\------------------------------------------------------

He takes the day off work and spends it at Joan’s bedside; Sam joins him in the afternoon despite his misgivings and they’re there together when she wakes for the first time. It’s not long; she’s as weak and exhausted as Morse was, so very thin, and her skin nearly transparent. “Dad?” she whispers, eyes slanting over to him. 

“I’m here, pet. I’m right here. You’ll be alright now, you’re safe now.”

She gives him a quizzical look, but falls asleep before she can say anymore.

\------------------------------------------------------

It’s the weekend before he can manage to see Morse, spending all his free time ‘til then at Joan’s bedside. He has to save his vacation time; he’ll need it when she’s released.

On Saturday he goes to see Morse in his rooms, an old and stuffy living space doubtless vacated by some or the other passing don and done up hastily for Morse. It’s all quite self-contained: little kitchen, sitting and dining area, full bathroom, and a bedroom with a double bed. 

Morse shows him this last as the final step on the tour, stopping beside in front of a small window set in the deep stone – the walls are more than a foot thick, and give off cold. He stands framed by ancient and slightly moth-eaten brocade drapes, the pale winter sun falling on his shoulders.

“Morse,” begins Thursday, trying to be tactful, “You don’t have to – if there’s someone else, or if you’d rather go on looking now that you’re out…” he manages, heart twisting itself into knots. 

Morse goes very still. “Do you want there to be someone else?” he asks, carefully.

“No! No. But – you weren’t exactly spoilt for choice when we – started,” he finishes, awkwardly, and sighs. “I just don’t want you to feel what held true then must hold true now.”

Morse turns away, resting his hands flat on the stone window sill and looking silently out at the quad below. “I don’t want you to leave,” he says quietly after a moment, and Thursday hears real fear there. The fear of a man who has been abandoned before by those he depended on, those he needed and loved. 

Thursday steps over and wraps his arms around Morse from behind, pulling him in close. Morse raises his hands to grasp his arms, hold onto him. “I won’t, then. I won’t leave you,” he says in a low voice, mouth next to Morse’s ear. Morse sighs, tension fading from his shoulders. 

“Do you love me?” he asks, earnestly. 

“Yes,” says Thursday, finding in his heart that it’s true – has been for a long time, now. 

Morse turns, eyes shining. He’s smiling broadly, with real joy. “Then stay.” He wraps his arms around Thursday, kisses him. “Stay,” he repeats, and kisses him again, long and deep. 

They fall back onto the bed, Morse’s hand already at his trouser zip. Then Morse’s hand is sliding in against his skin, slipping down to run sure fingers over Thursday’s hardening prick, rub his thumb over the head. Thursday shudders, pressing kisses along Morse’s cheekbone and then running his teeth gently over the curve of his ear, delicate and sensitive. Morse’s hand tightens briefly as Thursday’s tongue flicks in his ear, then strokes downwards to grind against the base of Thursday’s cock. Thursday groans, his hips bucking up into the touch, the pressure. Morse smiles and unclips his braces, pushing Thursday’s trousers and pants down together in a quick move. 

Before he can go further, Thursday is undoing Morse’s trousers and pulling his flushed cock out from the cotton of his shorts. He moves back on the bed and bends, lowering his mouth. 

Morse’s eyes flicker shut, his long fingers running over Thursday’s sleek hair, his ears, the lines of his cheeks. As Thursday licks he starts to card his hands through Thursday’s hair, fingers tangling in more tightly when Thursday starts rising and bobbing his head, running his tongue under the hood and beginning to stroke with his hand. 

His free hand pushes Morse’s legs further apart, then slips down from his balls to run a sly finger back and forth over Morse’s entrance. Morse gasps, hips snapping up; he’s never had Morse – not yet. He may never, but he hopes – someday, he hopes he will. 

Morse is watching him now, blue eyes half-lidded but very bright. His breath is coming fast, tie loosened and lying crooked across his front. Thursday feels a rush of arousal and straightens, giving himself a few strokes. “Turn over?” 

Morse obliges, presenting a narrow back and pale, perfect arse. Thursday kisses the nape of his neck as he pulls in close, sliding his cock between Morse’s cheeks until the tip presses against the back of his balls; Morse shivers. He pulls back then does it again, closing his eyes against the feel of Morse’s velvet skin. His hips take up a rhythm quickly, unable to stand idle touches, and he starts stroking in and out, close to the heat of Morse’s core. He reaches forward and takes Morse’s prick in his hand, setting the same rhythm there, arriving at the base each time his own cock slams up into Morse’s balls. Morse is panting hard now, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. His breath catches at the height of Thursday’s thrusts, and as the rhythm becomes faster and harder a thin keening slips from his throat. 

Thursday slams his hips up against Morse, grinding them together, his cock aching with need. He ruts up desperately, seeking release, and finds it as Morse gasps. He comes in a long searing rush, entirely enveloped by his climax. He feels Morse follow a moment later, canting needily into Thursday’s hand. 

He pulls away first, falling away onto the bed. Morse drops down beside him, and lets Thursday pull the covers over both of them. The younger man starts picking purposefully at his buttons; Thursday takes his hand away and kisses his knuckles to stop him. “Time for that later,” he says. Morse turns over, looking at him with wide, burning eyes, and he smiles softly. “Time enough for everything.”

END


End file.
